The Headpiece
"Why are ye wearin' that thing?" came Catti-brie's question.
The drow blinked and sat up, finding the young girl sitting in front of him on her haunches and observing him.
"Pardon me?"
"Why ye wear that thing?" she asked again, this time stabbing a finger in the air at his forehead.
Blinking, Drizzt reached up with a hand and touched the soft, metallic plate of his headgear. The golden triangle started at his hairline and its tip came to a stop above the bridge of his nose, forming a slope over his eyebrows and hiding his forehead. It was simple, and decorated only with a few red lines to not make it appear all too dull.
Why did he wear it? It was something each male at the Melee-Magthere wielding two weapons had been outfitted with, a strange type of shield that was created to protect the fighters from getting their heads cut open by a stray blade and to keep their hair from distracting them as well. Drizzt's headpiece had gained more than a few dents over time, although that had more been from being thrown into walls by big creatures or spellcasters.
"I don't really know," he slowly said. Why was he wearing it? He had grown so used to its presence that, it struck him, he had never considered it to be a remaining of his dark heritage. It was simply too much a part of him.
"Ye look ridiculously with't," Catti-brie firmly stated.
The drow laughed at this, even though he could sense that the girl was, as always, stating exactly how she felt about it. His mirth fading, the dark elf reached up, undid the elaborate clasps holding the headpiece in place and removed it, his hair immediately falling down on its own accord into a more natural position. Drizzt turned the metal over in his hands, his eyes growing thoughtful as he observed the small mark of a spider wielding a different weapon in each of its eight legs carved into the metal.
"You're right," he then said, giving the woman a light smile. "I do look ridiculous with it on."
Rising to his feet, he walked to the side of the cliff on which they were sitting and looked down the steep drop. He gave another glance at the headpiece, the final thing that, he realized, tied him to Menzoberranzan, and was struck with a sudden idea.
Grinning, he took aim, swung his arm, and let the metal fly through the air, over the cliffside and down into the chasm where it hopped over the boulders with a satisfying clonk. A light snort of laughter left him then, as he observed the now battered and broken headpiece lying forlorn on the rocks, the final reminder of what he had once been.
"There. Now I won't look ridiciouslous anymore," he said with a beaming smile to the woman, and wondered why he had not thought of getting rid of the headpiece before. Catti-brie, of course, was absolutely correct. He had always looked like a big fool with it on.
Another disadvantage about being drow, he thought to himself. Everyone, even ones closest friends, were hesitant to tell you if you looked utterly silly. Probably the reason for why Jarlaxle still maintained his dresscode…