The Lesser Evil
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.
Chapter 7: The Fall of Drizzt Do'Urden
In one second, Drizzt's vision from the snowy crags of Kelvin's Cairn to the plain white walls and small, blanket covered beds of what appeared to be a room in a modest inn.
"Welcome to the City of Splendors," Jarlaxle said putting his wand back in his vest and walking towards a small table by the window.
"Neither of you got far, did you," Drizzt said, looking around the room, looking at the green, wool blankets on the two beds and the small cot set up on the side of the room. The floor was consisted of cheap clapboard that was loosely covered by a gaudy, blue and green rug embroidered with various patterns.
"Well, we have been taking a little respite lately," the mercenary said, pulling off his hat and pulling out a small bottle of a yellowish liquid followed by three, small glasses. "Our last mission was rather…taxing."
Drizzt bit his lip and nodded as he watched his kinsman pop the cork on the bottle and pour a small amount of the liquid in a glass while replacing his hat.
"It's just mead," Jarlaxle said, "care for some?"
"No thanks, maybe later."
"I usually have a sip before Reverie, but I'm just in the mood right now." The mercenary swirled the glass as he sniffed its sweet contents. "Speaking of which, have you had your trance yet?"
"Yes, just a few hours ago."
"Good, I need you well rested. Do you have a spare tunic in that bag, perhaps a vest?"
"Both, why?"
"Remove the tunic you have on now and change into the other," Jarlaxle replied, sipping the mead and looking out the window. "Make sure your mail shirt is underneath and concealed. Also remove your cloak and tie your hair back. I don't want you looking like you just came out of the woods."
Drizzt shrugged and placed his bag on one of the beds, gradually breaking out of his daze. He then did as he was asked, taking off his traveling cloak, his mail shirt, then his tunic. Bare to the waist, he took a moment to stretch his muscles and enjoy some movement free of the gear he had on for almost a day. Drizzt opened the bag, placed his tunic and mail shirt inside and took out the armored shirt he took from the body of a drow soldier he killed during the Thousand Orcs War. As he looked down, his gaze fell on the white pendant shaped like a unicorn head that rested against his chest, sticking out against his ebony skin: the symbol of Mielikki that Regis had carved for him out of knucklehead many years ago. Without a thought, he pulled the chain over his head and shoved the pendant into a small pouch on his belt before sliding on the white, deceivingly comfortable shirt. Drizzt then removed a black, wool vest from the bag, a garment he usually wore on off days, and put it on before pulling out a small strand of leather cord and tying back his long, white hair. He then looked at Jarlaxle, whose gaze never left the window.
When he was done changing, Drizzt walked up to the window and looked down to see they were in Waterdeep's Trades Ward. The street was bustling with the usual crowd of late-night revelers, but the ranger's gaze fell on a small man in a black cape and a bolero hat standing against the wall and scanning the crowd, a man he assumed was Entreri. When the man looked up at the window and nodded, his identity was obvious. Jarlaxle drained his glass, placed it on the table with a shrill chink, and sprang to his feet in one motion.
"Before we continue, I have a little gift for you," Jarlaxle said, reaching under the table for a black, unmarked wooden box he lifted and placed on the bed in front of Drizzt.
Drizzt eyed the box for a second, opened the lid, and lifted out a fine, black velvet cape.
"You shouldn't have," Drizzt said while examining and rich garment. After inspecting it for any hidden pouches or emanations of magic, he put it on, clasping the silver neck chain. The cape felt luxurious, yet light enough for movement. This was a welcome change from his green, wool traveling cloak that had seen too many battles.
"It has a shielding spell on it," the mercenary explained, returning his gaze to the window. "That should protect you from any bursts of flame or lightening, though I doubt it would work against a dragon's breath."
Jarlaxle then opened the window and signaled for Drizzt to follow. The mercenary then leapt out and landed perfectly on his feet two stories down. His dark elf companion jumped down beside him, landing on his feet in a crouch, but in a movement no less graceful. Entreri casually slipped from his post by the wall and walked deeper into the alley. He gave Jarlaxle a brief glance, but then stopped and glared at the other slender figure coming to a standing position next to him.
"Good evening, Artemis," Drizzt said, making an attempt at sounding casual.
"I hope this isn't a social call," Entreri said.
"This is our third sword," Jarlaxle said, moving to Drizzt's other side and putting an arm around his shoulder.
Entreri locked stares with the ranger, and then slowly nodded his head.
"Fine," the assassin said, "let's see if he's actually useful."
"That's the spirit!" Jarlaxle said triumphantly, swinging his other arm around Entreri and locking both his companions in a tight embrace. Entreri grabbed Jarlaxle's arm and threw it off his shoulder as he jerked back, glaring at both drow.
"Well, now that we're acquainted," Jarlaxle said, removing his arm from Drizzt's shoulder, "let's inform our new friend of tonight's business. Take it away, Master Artemis."
"We're looking for a half-elf named Samson Treal," Entreri said in an annoyed tone. "He was once a master thief, now he's decrepit alcoholic beating up children for their candy money. I knew him before by reputation, but word has spread that he's hit the very bottom. Last night he slit the throat of a passing trader on the road and has been seen around the city, though he's exceptionally good at hiding himself. I, however, am better at looking. He's still skulking through the Trades Ward now, so we pretty much have him."
"Good," Jarlaxle said, "I will allow you and Master Do'Urden apprehend this malefactor."
"You're not coming?" Entreri asked, his annoyed tone taking on more venom.
"Our new companion needs to learn how we do things. Besides, I want you two to have some quality time together."
Without another word, Jarlaxle tipped his hat and levitated up to the window, jumping backwards onto the windowsill, and vanishing inside the building. Drizzt and Entreri look one last look at their companion, and then locked stares again.
"Mind me well, Do'Urden," Entreri said coldly. "I may have no desire to kill you now and I am willing to play along with this little alliance, but don't think that makes me like you any more. If you want to avoid bloodshed, I recommend that you don't cross me."
"If I wanted to cross you, Entreri," Drizzt said firmly, "you would die. No mercy, no second thoughts, just you as a corpse."
"In that event, you had better make damn sure I'm dead. I would hate to face Jarlaxle when he finds your body in pieces too small to heal again. Now let's get this over with."
"Lead the way."
Entreri shot him a last glare and turned around, walking away from the alley with his new, unlikely partner following close behind. Drizzt pulled the hood of his new cape over his head and followed Entreri through the crowd, keeping a safe distance behind so others would not assume they were passing revelers and not men on a mission. Entreri then turned around and made a subtle motion towards the left.
The man beside the second lamppost, the assassin signed in drow hand code, keeping his hand low. Small, scrawny one in a brown, ragged tunic with long, unkempt white hair.
Drizzt looked through the crowd and saw the man of that description: a sickly looking vagabond sitting on the curb by a lamppost whispering to the empty air. The drow nodded his head and Entreri motioned his companion to follow. They passed through the crowd and drew closer to the man, Entreri on one side, Drizzt on the other. They were a few feet away when the thief suddenly looked up to see Entreri walking in his direction. His gold-flecked blue eyes shot wide as he jumped to his feet and bolted.
"Dammit," Entreri spat under his breath as he broke into a swift walk and continued after his quarry, Drizzt following close behind.
The chase continued past the usual, late night crowds and into more sparsely populated streets as the three moved out of the Trades Ward. Samson had the speed of an elf, but the stamina of a sick man as he stumbled several times and appeared to lose energy. Drizzt and Entreri's respective paces turned into a slow run as they gained on the half-elf. Samson suddenly found a burst of energy and shot out into the street with his pursuers a good distance behind for a second before they came closer, yet not close enough.
The air soon took on the odor of dead fish as the old man ran on streets strewn with garbage, blood, and so many more downtrodden souls sleeping against tattered shacks. This was the Dock Ward, the dirtiest and most dangerous section of Waterdeep. By this time, Drizzt and Entreri broke into a steady run, not caring if anyone saw and focusing on ending the chase. Samson then changed his direction and ran into a rickety, two story house where several other unfortunates were strewn about.
The two bounty hunters slowed their pace and walked into the building to see a room full of people in rags sitting at small tables and eating hot bowls of stew. At the front of the room were a group of tidier individuals in red robes pouring stew and talking to unfortunates. As they walked in without notice, Drizzt saw the robed figures wearing wooden pendants in the shape of a pair of hands bound in cord, the symbol of Ilmater, the god of healing and suffering.
"So now you're infiltrating an alms house, goodly elf?" Entreri whispered in his partner's pointed ear with a grin. "You can turn around now and end this blasphemy, but don't forget to leave an offering to the Crying God on your way out."
Drizzt shot him a glare and continued through the crowd after the thief. Entreri paused for a low chuckle of final validation before following him. The two scanned the hall and noticed the small figure moving through the crowd. Drizzt motioned his head to the right and slowly made his way through the throng of people, looking back to see Entreri close behind.
Samson walked through a small side hallway to a blank, brick wall at the end. He then traced a symbol over a protruding, black brick with a bony finger. The wall became translucent for a second, allowing the old man to walk through the wall down a small, stone corridor, unaware of the two quiet creatures that snuck in behind him. After descending a long set of narrow, stone stairs, doing all he could to keep from tripping, Samson continued his run down the hallway and around a corner while Drizzt and Entreri were a few feet away, stepping down lightly and not making a sound as they entered the tunnel behind the half-elf. Entreri looked up and watched the wall they just walked through wave with a watery light before becoming opaque again. Drizzt quickened his pace and was soon right behind Samson. He reached towards the thief, his ebony hand just an inch away from his battered brown cape. Samson then got a sudden burst of speed and shot off.
"Vith," the drow spat, pausing and listening down the cavernous hall. He then looked at the wall and ran his finger along a patch of moss as he heard the clumsy half-elf fall and resumed pursuit.
We are gaining on him, Drizzt signed.
You better be damn sure, Entreri signed back. You could be leading us into the Underdark for all I know.
Then it's a good thing you have me along. The dark elf smiled wickedly and sprinted down the corridor, letting his vision turn to the infrared spectrum.
Entreri gave a pained expression before rolling his eyes, drawing his weapons, and following. Drizzt's scimitars appeared in his hands as he slowly continued, listening as the old human's pace became slower, his wheezing breath announcing his presence more to the drow, who was now in his natural environment. Drizzt refused to admit to himself that he was enjoying this little game of black cat and wheezing mouse, but he was rewarded with the high heat pattern of the thief standing still and looking ready to pass out. Drizzt waited for a second, stepped forward, and then sprang.
Then the dark elf's Underdark senses were disabled by a bright flash to the side, sending him spilling to the ground with a groan. Entreri flinched as a series of torches suddenly broke through the darkness, revealing a large room adorned with fancily woven red rugs and banners adorned with the symbol of Ilmater. The assassin reached down and lifted the light drow to his feet as he gradually regained his senses enough to see a group of red clad figures surrounding them. While most wore the same flowing robes as the laypeople upstairs, five were clad in long, red tunics and loose, white trousers. The five, all male humans, lined the inner part of the circle. Their hair was either short or pulled back, faces grim, muscles taut, and all of them had finely carved quarterstaffs in their ready hands as they glared at the intruders.
The eight on the outside of the circle were most likely commoners, though they probably had swords or knives under their robes. The two bounty hunters paid more attention to the five monks surrounding them, sizing them up and predicting their next moves. They were all young, Drizzt noted, probably barely into adulthood. His warrior's senses saw the determination plastered on their young faces, while they held their quarterstaffs too tensely to be ready for battle. The drow gave a slight smile: if young ones like these held this battle stance at Melee-Magthere, they would die within a day. Drizzt then shot a glance at Entreri, who looked similarly unimpressed, though no less prepared for what might happen.
"Welcome, honored guests, to the chapel of our Crying God," a booming voice said from the front of the tight circle.
The monks bowed in veneration. Two commoners stood aside to allow a man in similar monk's robes enter the circle. The man was tall, towering over the smaller bounty hunters by several inches accented by a taut, almost bulky muscle tone. He had thin, salt and pepper hair pulled tightly back into a thin ponytail that resembled the thin strips of his moustache. His red tunic was embroidered with silver filigree and his holy symbol was made of finely polished silver.
"I am Minan Rannegart, priest and humble servant of Ilmater," the monk said in a stuffy tone. "These are private chambers, gentlemen. If you wish to seek the council of our order, we will escort you upstairs to speak with our able chaplains."
Samson Treal then came through the group and stood behind the priest, using the large man to shield him from his pursuers.
"Though, as my old friend Samson tells me, I doubt Artemis Entreri seeks the aid of any goodly gods. Neither does…Jarlaxle is it?"
Entreri glared at the priest, though Drizzt sheathed his blades and threw back his hood, walking before the cleric, whose face wrinkled in disgust at the now-exposed dark elf in front of him.
"No, Jarlaxle is my cousin. He's in Cormanthor tending to our ill grandmother, a venerable priestess of Eilistraee."
"Oh," Rannegart said profoundly. "Is he going to make sure she dies?"
Drizzt paused and glared at him, fully gauging who he was dealing with.
"Not to my knowledge."
"Understood, Master…"
"DeVir," Drizzt said bowing, "Alton DeVir."
"Master DeVir, I see. I thought you were going to say your name was Do'Urden."
Drizzt paused again, looked to the floor, and drew Icingdeath, provoking a mass of gasps from the chaplains and a sudden battle-stance from the monks. Rannegart just stood still and expressionless, giving no signs that he recognized the blade and the one who wielded it.
"I get that a lot," the drow said, giving the cleric an irritated glare, "too much." He shot threatening sneers to every nervous soul in the circle before pausing, picking at a loose thread on his trousers, and carefully scraping it off with the tip of the blade before sheathing it and returning his attention to the group. Entreri bit his lip hard to keep from laughing.
"Well, whatever your name is," Rannegart continued. "That makes you no less a dark elf and your partner no less a hateful murderer."
Drizzt smiled, though he couldn't help the blood from rushing through his temples. Now it was a "goodly" priest who was denouncing him for his race. At one point this wouldn't bother him. That was until he had the worst tenday of his life.
"And you are a man in fancy clothing who calls yourself akin to a god," Entreri added. "I have found priests of drow gods more worthy of respect than priests of suffering gods." Unlike his partner, Drizzt wasn't the one to hold back his laugh.
"Master Rannegart," Drizzt said, "we do come here on a mission of goodness. There is a murderer in your midst, and it is certainly not one of us."
"Samson Treal is no godless killer, unlike yourself and your vile companion. He is a man who has lost his way, but is now my ward as he finds his way back to goodness. A good man would defend himself from the ruffian on the road who tried to cut his throat in sport, as I have heard from my chaplains. I know you have probably killed many helpless creatures in sport. How many humans have fallen under those blades, Master DeVir? How about elven children?"
Drizzt held back the wave of nausea that came over him as a sudden image of Ellifain assaulted his frenzied mind. Just one slice across the throat, and this braggart would be silenced.
"I believe that is for the authorities to decide whether or not Master Treal acted in self defense," Drizzt said through gritted teeth, his patience waning with every second. "Do you intend to keep him locked in here forever?"
"I will take him to the authorities myself," Rannegart said. "I would never see such a gentle soul in the hands of a drow"
Drizzt stepped back and took a few deep breaths as he pried his fingers off his scimitars. All he could see or taste was blood, yet he held himself back again.
"Minan, friend," Entreri said, stepping up to the cleric, now seething at being referred to by his familiar name. "We represent the authorities."
Barely a second later, the tip of Charon's Claw was lightly pressed against Rannegart's throat. The chaplains reached for their concealed blades, while the monks sprang forward. Rannegart held up a hand to calm his soldiers, keeping his same, unamused expression despite the emanations of evil wafting from the blade.
"One lingering slice, father," Entreri hissed, "and you die with the perfect amount of suffering to please your idol. Now we are going to give you the opportunity to end this one of two ways: the quiet way, or the way we would prefer."
"You know the answer to that question, foul assassin," Rannegart said. "Go ahead and kill me, but know that you are outnumbered by servants of Ilmater, who will all break your evil bones and turn a drow skull into the perfect trophy on our altar."
Drizzt's mind went blank. All thoughts of reason, morality, or self control drowned in the final wave of blinding rage that had been slowly building since the moment Catti-brie died and could be held back no more. In a series of unconscious movements, his scimitars were in his hands, his arms shot back, and a monk and a chaplain fell dead. A third monk sprang forward, raised his staff, and met the slice of two scimitars cutting his body in half. Everything happened so fast, Entreri wasn't fully aware of what happened until Rannegart's face blanched and a pool of blood formed at his feet. The assassin looked down at the gathering pool, then over at the broken bodies, and then at Drizzt, whose face was calm, blades dripping with blood. Entreri raised an eyebrow, and then looked back at the cleric, who stood frozen by the sight. The surviving monks and chaplains stood firm, glaring at Drizzt, who waited for one more idiot to make a move.
"Congratulations, priest," Entreri said, "three of your men died in a matter of seconds. Give us another few minutes and this room will be a vampire's bathhouse. Is it worth it for one man?"
Rannegart responded by kicking out with both legs, his feet landing hard into Entreri's chest. The assassin's sword was disengaged, but he buckled his knees to brace the blow and jumped to a crouch, swinging his blade towards the priest's knees. The priest predictably jumped up, but didn't see the small man spin behind him on one foot and take out both hamstrings in one slice. Rannegart fell to his knees with a howl. Entreri rose and slammed the pommel of Charon's Claw between Rannegart's shoulder blades, sending him face-first on the ground.
Samson sprinted away from the circle like a bolt of lightening. Drizzt sprinted after him, though a monk was soon in his face. The drow actually had to parry a few blows from the quarterstaff before sticking Twinkle through his throat. As the monk fell down in a spray of choking blood, a red robed chaplain raised a dagger and lost his weapon hand in one swipe and his head in the next. Two more came into view and were stuck through the heart in a double-thrust, though Drizzt stopped keeping track of who attacked him and who was just there. He just felt the motion of his arms and the sprays of blood as another chaplain fell, then another. The two remaining chaplains fell to their knees before the drow and pleaded for their lives. Drizzt paused, heard their prayers, and decapitated both in one sweep before he chased after the half-elf. A quarterstaff landed on his left hand, sending Icingdeath flying across the floor and Twinkle through the top of the monk's skull.
As the drow dislodged the blade, the last monk, a boy barely out of childhood, froze before him in terror. Drizzt looked him straight in his pleading, brown eyes, grabbed his hair, kissed him on the forehead, and watched his young eyes frozen open as the scimitar went across his neck and the rest of his small body crumpled to the floor; the head still in the dark elf's hand.
"Behind you!" Entreri screamed.
Drizzt dropped the head, looked back, and fell to his knees as a wave of flames cascaded in his direction. Before he could lament not having Icingdeath to protect him from the conflagration, he felt only a sweeping warmth as Jarlaxle's gift proved reliable. He then smelled stench of burning hair and felt the sear against the backs of his neck and his long, pointed ears. After the firestorm, Drizzt slapped out the last burning embers in his hair and discovered his thick, white mane wad been burned off, leaving the white stubble that formed his hairline. He looked back to see Rannegart coming to his self-healed legs, his fingertips still smoking with the sudden spell, and Entreri sprawled out on the ground, the right side of his face a mass of bruises and blood. Ignoring the throbbing burn in his skin, Drizzt growled and continued running in the direction where Samson ran last.
After a short run, the drow saw a small, open door at the end of the hall and saw Samson cowering on the floor behind a large cask marked "wine." Drizzt reached down to the pleading half-elf, grabbed him by the neck, and lifted him up.
"Do you know what I have gone through to catch your miserable hide," the drow sneered in the whimpering man's face. Drizzt then looked down to the cask, and smiled. "No, I am being too harsh. Let's crack these open and have a little drink."
Samson's eyes went wide as he nodded ecstatically. Drizzt hacked at the cover with Twinkle until the barrel was open, the red contents inside exposed. He then dunked the small man head first into the barrel and held him down with a growl. The old half-elf's wizened limbs flailed, but Drizzt held him steady, watching bubbles from his frantic breath float to the top.
The drow looked up to see Rannegart back on his stomach, Entreri digging his knee in the cleric's back and lifting his bleeding head up to watch his ward being drowned while whispering curses in his ear. As Samson's limbs flailed less, Entreri plunged his jeweled dagger into Minan Rannegart's back, savoring the flow of his life essence as the goodly priest went cold, then passed to his god. Samson Treal's body stopped moving. Drizzt lifted the rest of his scrawny form and threw it into the wine with a splash.
Entreri came to his feet and walked towards the closet. The bruises on the assassin's face now vanished and all that remained of them was caked blood. He bent down and picked Icingdeath from the floor, swinging it around a few times and nodding in approval at the comfortable feel of the weapon. He stood in the doorway, looked at Samson's drowned corpse in the barrel, then at Drizzt, whose hands clasped lip of the barrel, holding him up and keeping his shaking legs from failing.
"Nice work," the assassin said, tossing the scimitar to its owner, who caught it by the hilt and sheathed it.
Drizzt leaned his back against the cold stone, his expression vacant as he looked at the body in the cask, then at the pile of bodies down the hall. None of those people were a real threat, he thought. All of them were the dedicated servants of a goodly god helpless against the walking death that entered their sacred chapel. And he slew all of them. Drizzt Do'Urden, the drow who had forsaken his evil kin and dedicated his life to fight injustice, had slaughtered innocents in a temple of a god of healing like any drow raider. His victims were all helpless against his blades that tore through their bodies. He slaughtered all of them in cold blood… and had reveled in every second.
The realization of that assaulted him, his conscience screaming condemnation. Then the voice went silent, replaced by a sudden state of clarity. He slid down against the wall in a sitting position, laid his head back against the cold stone, closed his eyes, and started laughing.
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"Unbelievable," Jarlaxle laughed, leaning back in his chair and looking at Entreri, whose elbows rested on the small, corner table at the tavern of their inn as he sipped his small mug of ale with a vacant expression.
Jarlaxle looked to the floor and snickered. He had seen the whole incident through a scry charm he had attached to one of Entreri's vest buttons during their little group hug, but his partner didn't need to know that. Besides, the mercenary enjoyed hearing the tale retold by his partner, who seemed amazingly stunned by the whole incident. Jarlaxle himself seemed quite amused by the whole thing.
"Yes, completely unbelievable," Entreri said, placing the mug back on the table and rubbing the still sore side of his face.
"No, 'unbelievable' is the wrong word. I prefer 'inevitable,'" the mercenary said with a shrug.
"I was about to say the same thing," Entreri replied.
"I swear Drizzt spent all his life convincing himself he's a saint, just like one can spend their entire life trying to turn a dragon into a house pet," Jarlaxle continued. "It always ends in such an ugly manner. Of course you probably find Drizzt Do'Urden's fall from grace an event worthy of celebration, especially since you witnessed the whole thing. In fact I do recall you putting a dagger in his hand during out last meeting. Is Artemis Entreri proving an influence?"
"He needed no influence," the assassin said, staring into his mug. "I saw it in his eyes every time we fought. Like a raging beast being held back by a wall of morals."
"He's a drow, friend; a drow who cannot deny that fact any longer."
Entreri lifted his mug and took another sip while shaking his head. He did not want to talk about any of this. For some reason he hadn't defined yet, the whole event disturbed him. Entreri remembered helping Do'Urden to his feet. The drow was perfectly calm, almost cheery as they found an escape hatch through the ceiling of the closet and emerged through the floor of an abandoned grain bin before returning to the street. As Drizzt gulped down part of a healing potion he kept in his belt for emergencies, his manner was jovial, yet his muscles trembled and his voice was noticeably cracked. Entreri knew he had just witnessed a man's nervous breakdown.
Jarlaxle didn't press the matter further. While he was amused by the events of that night, he knew his young friend had completely fallen apart. The final result of this incident would play out soon, to the boon or bane of all.
"I have to say I love his hair now," Jarlaxle said, trying to keep talk light. "It needs to be neatened a little, but his hair looks good short."
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Drizzt sat at the small table, looking out the window at purple sky of coming dawn, sipping a small glass of mead, and running a hand through his now short hair. He had come straight to the room after returning to the inn, letting Entreri meet with Jarlaxle in the tavern below and report on the events of the night. Samson Treal's head was now in the hands of the Waterdeep authorities and all three had a modest bounty in their respective coffers. Instead of going downstairs and carousing, Drizzt instead opted for changing into a pair of loose, wool trousers and keeping his torso bare so he could sit and enjoy this moment of quiet comfort. It was the first moment of complete, blissful calm he had known in eight days. No, he thought with a laugh, make that seventy-five years.
He didn't want to think about what he had just walked away from, but, for some reason, the events of that night seemed only natural, as if a life's worth of personal expectations and stifling vows had finally lifted. The thought should have terrified him, but it didn't. Drizzt knew he should be on his knees praying to both Ilmater and Mielikki for forgiveness for his horrible crimes. He shouldn't even be in the company of two cruel mercenaries. He should be in Mithril Hall fighting orcs with Bruenor. He should be in Icewind Dale fighting tundra yetis with Catti-brie. But Catti-brie was dead, as was his old life, as was the last, struggling remains of his conscience. He, however, was still alive, sipping sweet liquor in absolute comfort while enjoying this quiet moment as the sun rose on the new stage of his existence.
For the first time ever, Drizzt Do'Urden felt truly free.
