The child knew better than to cry. Already she had learned that it made no difference. She stood mute as she was taken from her home. Matron Khehan looked on impassively as well; for all that it was her child who was taken. The girl was of no importance. She showed no aptitude for clerical magic of any kind. Therefore, she was expendable. So the mother's train of thought occurred. The child was of no matter. She would bear another. Power - now that was important. Matron Khehan intended to change the balance of power in Menzoberanzan.
Yes, power. That was the only factor of life. She craved it, dreamed of it, and would sacrifice far more than one insignificant child for it. The girl would prove a rallying point for their house. The sacrifice of one for many. She smiled cruelly, already planning what she would say.
The young girl gazed at her captors with full understanding. All of the lower houses knew that sometimes young children mysteriously 'disappeared' and 'wandered into the Underdark.' It was a suprising coincidence that these instances coexisted with the times when young fighters began their rounds of the Underdark - and needed experience. They often came to the 'rescue' of the 'missing' children... and none of the children so far had survived. They were looking for glory, after all - they did not care about such mere things as the life of a child. Her suspicions confirmed, they headed into the Underdark. The girl gazed into her captor's impassive eyes. The creatures were hideous, in their own right. They also were cruel and heartless. A lone Drow - defenseless- was too easy a target for them to refuse. The Hooked Horrors clicked their claws menacingly, advancing cautiously at first. Finally assured that it was not - at least not yet - a trap, they came in for the kill.
The patrol spoke in the silent fingercode. They were too near to risk speaking. They were silent as shadows, cloaked in darkness and with souls to match. They had been told they were to rescue a young child from a minor house, but all knew it was really an excuse to give them experience fighting the monsters of the Underdark. If the squad leader had looked more carefully at the faces of the patrol he commanded, however, he would have seen one face that did not fully accept what was happening. Young Drizzt Do'Urden looked troubled under the cloak of darkness. His face stood out in sharp relief against the treacherous and crafty eyes of the rest of the party.
She screamed. She was only a child, after all, and the claws hurt. She tried to scramble away, back from the clacking claws that were advancing swiftly towards her throat. Her tied hands caught on a rock, and she pitched over sideways. As she fell, a blinding pain shot through her abdomen - the claws had connected, tearing a gaping hole in her stomach. Dazed with pain, feeling her life's blood draining away into the darkness, she lay there unmoving. Let it be quick. That is all I ask. This time the Horror's claws dived for her head, intending to bash it into nothingness. She closed her eyes and waited for the end, the splitting pain and darkness that would end this torment. Her wounds throbbed, the gash in her stomach gaping - for with her hands bound she could not even attempt to hold it shut. The end was near.
Drizzt heard the scream of a young Drow. Why couldn't they hurry? It would be over before they could reach the child. The scream reverberated through the cavern, and he glanced at his patrol leader. Could he not see that unless they arrived the child would be dead? When they finally reached the cavern where the still form of a Drow - no more than six or so years of age - lay, surrounded by Horrors he dashed in, trying to get to the all-to-still form as quickly as possible. Even as he ran, however, he heard the scream die away into a gurgle. Death had come to the little child. He felt it in his heart and cursed the Hooked Horrors, the Patrol leader, and his own slowness. Then the battle began, and there was no time for thought. He remembered, however. He remembered the callousness that the death had received. He remembered the cruelty of the Drow. His people were no longer his own.
Pain, great surges of pain flew throughout her body. She was both hot and cold as the fever increased. Yet still she dragged herself on. The blood from her mangled body left a direct trail for predators to follow, but she pushed onward. A sword she had taken from the body of a fallen Drow patrol member she used as a staff to keep herself upright. If she stopped now, she would never be able to continue. This she knew, and so she pressed on through the dangerous Underdark. She cried aloud to Lloth, but found no answer. Her pleas went unheard. She cried to other gods, in desperation. Shear will alone kept her from death. She would live to die another day. She crawled onward, delirious from pain. Nothing mattered now, except that she keep on moving. She had no concept of time or of weariness. Her huge eyes colored a deep green, hard with concentration. If she had ever been a child, in the harsh Drow society that made sure it's citizens grew up fast, she was no longer. With every step, the slash across her stomach reopened, and the steady drip of the blood from the not insignificant cut on her forehead kept time with her steps. In her mind only one thing mattered: survival.
From the muffled gloom came the sounds of pickaxes and shovels hard at work. Her mind did not take in these facts, did not put two and two together as she stumbled onward. Keep moving. The blackness around the edges of her vision had grown - she could barely see the world around her. With every breath it became harder to breathe, her head swam at the slightest movement. Her will, so formidable as to take her this far, began to collapse. She stumbled onward for a few more feet, then with a shudder collapsed to the ground, senseless. Under her, seeping out from beneath her tattered clothes, a small puddle of sticky blood began to form. Her eyes fluttered open once, twice, three times then lay still. With a sigh, she gave herself up for the second time.
The Gnomes were at first wary when the figure staggered into their midst. Her bloodshot eyes, horror-filled and staring, took in nothing of her surroundings. She was covered in blood and dirt, leaning on a sword that should have been too heavy for her even to move and her clothes were in tatters around her. Without a sound, she collapsed, still fighting her loosing battle.
The Gnomes were at first wary - they were often hunted by the Drow for sport and pleasure. Was this some other trick to lure them into complacency? Their leader, a kind-hearted fellow named Gmish, came cautiously to her side. She had survived some terrible ordeal, it was obvious. Now she hovered on the brink of death - he had heard of the horrors committed by the Drow on those of their own race and he did not doubt that this was yet another. However, he must look out for his men first and foremost. It would not do to get the Drow angry. This could still be some sort of horrible trap...
These thoughts weighted his mind down for many a minute, but when he looked again on the dying child he had no heart to resist. Carefully, he gathered her in his arms and began to walk towards home. This child, even if she were a Drow, would be given a chance. For the second time in as many days, Iridiel R'einerre had cheated death.
It was becoming something of a habit, you might say.
In other words, Death was becoming mighty putout by this little girl who would not give in.
It resolved to do something about it, possibly. If it had the time. There were many other people. It would see. No one ever thinks of Death as sentimental, but it knows when to quit while it is ahead.
'OH WELL,' thought Death. 'ANOTHER DAY, PERHAPS. I AM RATHER BUISY AT THE MOMENT, AFTER ALL.'
For those who have read Terry Pratchett's books, you know that Death ALWAYS SPEAKS IN CAPITOL LETTERS. 'If you had seen her when she came in,' thought Gmish, 'you would never have believed it to be possible that this could be the same dying little girl. The poor child deserves some happiness... yet I wonder what it was that made the Drow through her out. I suppose that will mercifully always remain a mystery.'
As part of her ordeal, young Iridiel R'einerre had lost that part of her memory that existed before whatever it was that had happened to her. She would bear the scars all her life... without ever knowing the cause. Gmish was thankful for her forgetfulness, though, as he watched her and his youngest play in the courtyard below. Absorbed in a complex game of their own invention, her eyes shone with impish glee. She had already in these few months past absorbed Gnomish, assimilated it with the gusto of a child into her Drow vocabulary. It was always an interesting experience talking to her - she spoke now in a fluent mix of Gnome and Drow that was all her own. For all that, she seemed to be able to understand them all perfectly - and never failed to make herself clear when she needed too. 'Such as when she wants extra dessert...' he muttered under his breath, grinning. After a few reservations by other Gnomes Iridiel had fit right in.
Iridiel was called by her Gnomish name now - Rhaine. Her real name was lost on the sands of time, and the Gnomes had been all too happy to give her a new one and erase the last trace of her past. Though it was still odd at times seeing a Drow among the younger ones, his heart warmed every time he thought of the recovery she had made.
Shadows still crossed her eyes at times, brought by the wind with tantalizing whispers of dark corridors and shadowy monsters. She would wrack her brain trying to remember what had come before she had awoken bruised and bloody in the Gnomish quarters. She did not look like them. Did not act like them. Did not even speak the same language, for Lloth's... Lloth? Who was that..? It seemed an important name... the connotations brought back more unpleasant memories, of despair and loneliness. Lloth... it must be something bad. Whatever it meant. Where did she get the scars that crisscrossed her body? There were so many questions.
A part of her longed for the day when all would be made clear. Another part feared that coming time with all of her great heart and soul. Rhaine was scouting ahead of her party, Amber eyes glinting as she looked for any hidden dangers in the path. The Drow had stepped up their attacks on the Gnomes, and extra vigilance was in order. Of course, she'd never even seen a Drow elf, but she had heard tales that they were a hundred feet tall - she discounted this. How could they stand in the tunnels if they were that tall? She did know that they were excellent fighters, though and did not want to risk her group. They were returning home after a successful mission, brimming with excitement, though still making sure to be cautious and careful. They had all had basic weapons training, but there was no sense risking an attack.
She was only a few yards ahead of her party when she heard it - a sudden shout, followed by a few screams, then... silence. The silence of the deep. Darkness pressed in around her as she turned swiftly back, heart racing. D'jorin was in that group... if anything happened to him... She made herself slow down as she entered the area where they had been, from the sounds of it. Her eyes took in shapes, rapidly loosing their heat to the chill chamber. She stumbled in, forgetting all caution. They had been so careful... how had they been overwhelmed with so little effort?
A voice, sweet with acrid loveliness, spoke. Some faint part of her knew that sound... a figure stepped into view. He pushed back his cloak to reveal long locks of stark white hair, mingling with an ebony face. Purple eyes, set in the face like amethysts took her in. He spoke again, all the while as horror was crashing down on her.
They'd never said... never said where she came from. This, this, this... Drow looked like her - she was an enemy of her people!
'I cannot be.' some distant part of her cried, but the reality was right in front of her.
The figure was becoming puzzled. He stared at her, at the scar that crossed her face, at the horror in her eyes. Then his hand went to the hilt of his weapon.
She turned and fled, sobbing, away towards home. She couldn't be a Drow. Slaughtered all of them. Even dear, sweet D'jorin, so good with sword and hammer. Why? She couldn't, just couldn't be a Drow. She was a Gnome!
The head of the party. She'd ached to gain that distinction. This was supposed to be her first mission. Just an easy stroll. They'd been careful, overcautious even... how?... how?
Questions reverberating in her mind, she fell to the tunnel ground, shaking.
The Gnomes found her there two days later, and carried her home.
Yes, power. That was the only factor of life. She craved it, dreamed of it, and would sacrifice far more than one insignificant child for it. The girl would prove a rallying point for their house. The sacrifice of one for many. She smiled cruelly, already planning what she would say.
The young girl gazed at her captors with full understanding. All of the lower houses knew that sometimes young children mysteriously 'disappeared' and 'wandered into the Underdark.' It was a suprising coincidence that these instances coexisted with the times when young fighters began their rounds of the Underdark - and needed experience. They often came to the 'rescue' of the 'missing' children... and none of the children so far had survived. They were looking for glory, after all - they did not care about such mere things as the life of a child. Her suspicions confirmed, they headed into the Underdark. The girl gazed into her captor's impassive eyes. The creatures were hideous, in their own right. They also were cruel and heartless. A lone Drow - defenseless- was too easy a target for them to refuse. The Hooked Horrors clicked their claws menacingly, advancing cautiously at first. Finally assured that it was not - at least not yet - a trap, they came in for the kill.
The patrol spoke in the silent fingercode. They were too near to risk speaking. They were silent as shadows, cloaked in darkness and with souls to match. They had been told they were to rescue a young child from a minor house, but all knew it was really an excuse to give them experience fighting the monsters of the Underdark. If the squad leader had looked more carefully at the faces of the patrol he commanded, however, he would have seen one face that did not fully accept what was happening. Young Drizzt Do'Urden looked troubled under the cloak of darkness. His face stood out in sharp relief against the treacherous and crafty eyes of the rest of the party.
She screamed. She was only a child, after all, and the claws hurt. She tried to scramble away, back from the clacking claws that were advancing swiftly towards her throat. Her tied hands caught on a rock, and she pitched over sideways. As she fell, a blinding pain shot through her abdomen - the claws had connected, tearing a gaping hole in her stomach. Dazed with pain, feeling her life's blood draining away into the darkness, she lay there unmoving. Let it be quick. That is all I ask. This time the Horror's claws dived for her head, intending to bash it into nothingness. She closed her eyes and waited for the end, the splitting pain and darkness that would end this torment. Her wounds throbbed, the gash in her stomach gaping - for with her hands bound she could not even attempt to hold it shut. The end was near.
Drizzt heard the scream of a young Drow. Why couldn't they hurry? It would be over before they could reach the child. The scream reverberated through the cavern, and he glanced at his patrol leader. Could he not see that unless they arrived the child would be dead? When they finally reached the cavern where the still form of a Drow - no more than six or so years of age - lay, surrounded by Horrors he dashed in, trying to get to the all-to-still form as quickly as possible. Even as he ran, however, he heard the scream die away into a gurgle. Death had come to the little child. He felt it in his heart and cursed the Hooked Horrors, the Patrol leader, and his own slowness. Then the battle began, and there was no time for thought. He remembered, however. He remembered the callousness that the death had received. He remembered the cruelty of the Drow. His people were no longer his own.
Pain, great surges of pain flew throughout her body. She was both hot and cold as the fever increased. Yet still she dragged herself on. The blood from her mangled body left a direct trail for predators to follow, but she pushed onward. A sword she had taken from the body of a fallen Drow patrol member she used as a staff to keep herself upright. If she stopped now, she would never be able to continue. This she knew, and so she pressed on through the dangerous Underdark. She cried aloud to Lloth, but found no answer. Her pleas went unheard. She cried to other gods, in desperation. Shear will alone kept her from death. She would live to die another day. She crawled onward, delirious from pain. Nothing mattered now, except that she keep on moving. She had no concept of time or of weariness. Her huge eyes colored a deep green, hard with concentration. If she had ever been a child, in the harsh Drow society that made sure it's citizens grew up fast, she was no longer. With every step, the slash across her stomach reopened, and the steady drip of the blood from the not insignificant cut on her forehead kept time with her steps. In her mind only one thing mattered: survival.
From the muffled gloom came the sounds of pickaxes and shovels hard at work. Her mind did not take in these facts, did not put two and two together as she stumbled onward. Keep moving. The blackness around the edges of her vision had grown - she could barely see the world around her. With every breath it became harder to breathe, her head swam at the slightest movement. Her will, so formidable as to take her this far, began to collapse. She stumbled onward for a few more feet, then with a shudder collapsed to the ground, senseless. Under her, seeping out from beneath her tattered clothes, a small puddle of sticky blood began to form. Her eyes fluttered open once, twice, three times then lay still. With a sigh, she gave herself up for the second time.
The Gnomes were at first wary when the figure staggered into their midst. Her bloodshot eyes, horror-filled and staring, took in nothing of her surroundings. She was covered in blood and dirt, leaning on a sword that should have been too heavy for her even to move and her clothes were in tatters around her. Without a sound, she collapsed, still fighting her loosing battle.
The Gnomes were at first wary - they were often hunted by the Drow for sport and pleasure. Was this some other trick to lure them into complacency? Their leader, a kind-hearted fellow named Gmish, came cautiously to her side. She had survived some terrible ordeal, it was obvious. Now she hovered on the brink of death - he had heard of the horrors committed by the Drow on those of their own race and he did not doubt that this was yet another. However, he must look out for his men first and foremost. It would not do to get the Drow angry. This could still be some sort of horrible trap...
These thoughts weighted his mind down for many a minute, but when he looked again on the dying child he had no heart to resist. Carefully, he gathered her in his arms and began to walk towards home. This child, even if she were a Drow, would be given a chance. For the second time in as many days, Iridiel R'einerre had cheated death.
It was becoming something of a habit, you might say.
In other words, Death was becoming mighty putout by this little girl who would not give in.
It resolved to do something about it, possibly. If it had the time. There were many other people. It would see. No one ever thinks of Death as sentimental, but it knows when to quit while it is ahead.
'OH WELL,' thought Death. 'ANOTHER DAY, PERHAPS. I AM RATHER BUISY AT THE MOMENT, AFTER ALL.'
For those who have read Terry Pratchett's books, you know that Death ALWAYS SPEAKS IN CAPITOL LETTERS. 'If you had seen her when she came in,' thought Gmish, 'you would never have believed it to be possible that this could be the same dying little girl. The poor child deserves some happiness... yet I wonder what it was that made the Drow through her out. I suppose that will mercifully always remain a mystery.'
As part of her ordeal, young Iridiel R'einerre had lost that part of her memory that existed before whatever it was that had happened to her. She would bear the scars all her life... without ever knowing the cause. Gmish was thankful for her forgetfulness, though, as he watched her and his youngest play in the courtyard below. Absorbed in a complex game of their own invention, her eyes shone with impish glee. She had already in these few months past absorbed Gnomish, assimilated it with the gusto of a child into her Drow vocabulary. It was always an interesting experience talking to her - she spoke now in a fluent mix of Gnome and Drow that was all her own. For all that, she seemed to be able to understand them all perfectly - and never failed to make herself clear when she needed too. 'Such as when she wants extra dessert...' he muttered under his breath, grinning. After a few reservations by other Gnomes Iridiel had fit right in.
Iridiel was called by her Gnomish name now - Rhaine. Her real name was lost on the sands of time, and the Gnomes had been all too happy to give her a new one and erase the last trace of her past. Though it was still odd at times seeing a Drow among the younger ones, his heart warmed every time he thought of the recovery she had made.
Shadows still crossed her eyes at times, brought by the wind with tantalizing whispers of dark corridors and shadowy monsters. She would wrack her brain trying to remember what had come before she had awoken bruised and bloody in the Gnomish quarters. She did not look like them. Did not act like them. Did not even speak the same language, for Lloth's... Lloth? Who was that..? It seemed an important name... the connotations brought back more unpleasant memories, of despair and loneliness. Lloth... it must be something bad. Whatever it meant. Where did she get the scars that crisscrossed her body? There were so many questions.
A part of her longed for the day when all would be made clear. Another part feared that coming time with all of her great heart and soul. Rhaine was scouting ahead of her party, Amber eyes glinting as she looked for any hidden dangers in the path. The Drow had stepped up their attacks on the Gnomes, and extra vigilance was in order. Of course, she'd never even seen a Drow elf, but she had heard tales that they were a hundred feet tall - she discounted this. How could they stand in the tunnels if they were that tall? She did know that they were excellent fighters, though and did not want to risk her group. They were returning home after a successful mission, brimming with excitement, though still making sure to be cautious and careful. They had all had basic weapons training, but there was no sense risking an attack.
She was only a few yards ahead of her party when she heard it - a sudden shout, followed by a few screams, then... silence. The silence of the deep. Darkness pressed in around her as she turned swiftly back, heart racing. D'jorin was in that group... if anything happened to him... She made herself slow down as she entered the area where they had been, from the sounds of it. Her eyes took in shapes, rapidly loosing their heat to the chill chamber. She stumbled in, forgetting all caution. They had been so careful... how had they been overwhelmed with so little effort?
A voice, sweet with acrid loveliness, spoke. Some faint part of her knew that sound... a figure stepped into view. He pushed back his cloak to reveal long locks of stark white hair, mingling with an ebony face. Purple eyes, set in the face like amethysts took her in. He spoke again, all the while as horror was crashing down on her.
They'd never said... never said where she came from. This, this, this... Drow looked like her - she was an enemy of her people!
'I cannot be.' some distant part of her cried, but the reality was right in front of her.
The figure was becoming puzzled. He stared at her, at the scar that crossed her face, at the horror in her eyes. Then his hand went to the hilt of his weapon.
She turned and fled, sobbing, away towards home. She couldn't be a Drow. Slaughtered all of them. Even dear, sweet D'jorin, so good with sword and hammer. Why? She couldn't, just couldn't be a Drow. She was a Gnome!
The head of the party. She'd ached to gain that distinction. This was supposed to be her first mission. Just an easy stroll. They'd been careful, overcautious even... how?... how?
Questions reverberating in her mind, she fell to the tunnel ground, shaking.
The Gnomes found her there two days later, and carried her home.