Chapter: Rumors and Resolutions
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to RA Salvatore except for the plot and any new or minor characters I might introduce which you should be able to spot.
A/N: Well, here's the next chapter. It's a little lighter then the others and contains a few (probably bad) attempts at humor and a twist at the end. By the way, I'd like to thank everyone who reviewed and give them a big cyber hug. Oh, especially one for Salak *hugs*.
I started out clean but I'm jaded
Just folding it in
Just breaking my skin
Can you help me, I'm bent
I'm so scared that I'll never
Get put back together
Bent by Matchbox Twenty
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"Would ye like another drink there, matey?" serving wench asked the dark, solitary figure in a voice that was supposed to sound enthusiastic but by this hour of the night was simply bored. The lone man waved her away, indicating that he hadn't even sipped from his first round. The wench muttered something to herself and went off to serve another 'matey'.
The tavern itself was called the 'Drunken Sailor' and was designed to make men of that occupation feel at home. Even though it was a port city most sailor's avoided it since when they came in from the sea they weren't too anxious to be hailed as 'matey' and 'landlubber'; it got on their nerves.
Tonight the tavern was actually a bit fuller then usual. Supposedly a wandering bard was looking for lodgings and would entertain the common room to pay his keep. The rumor proved true and within a few minutes a rather nervous looking fellow with a long nose and a slight tick in his left eye stood up on a crate in front of the room.
"I say, I say, can everyone hear me?" he called out, though only a few men looked up, not including the dark stranger who was still bent over his mug.
"To...tonight I shall be telling the tale of the two lovers..." he was drowned out by a chorus of boo's around the tavern. "Oh. Not a favorite I see," he giggled nervously. "Let's see... in that case I will be telling the tale of the mythical hero..." he looked around waiting for more signs of distaste and continued, after hearing none, "The tale of the mythical hero, Drizzt Do'Urden!"
Silence. Drizzt himself, wrapped tightly in his dark cloak finally looked up from his tankard to stare in shock at the man. But the tale-spinner seemed to take confidence from the silence and with a dramatic clearing of his throat he began. "Almost a century ago, before you or I were born and during which our own sires were only youngsters, no older then your own children, there lived a great hero, a drow ranger, by the name of Drizzt Do'Urden."
"Now, it would take a greater man then me to fully give justice to this tale..." he was drowned out again by a chorus of 'aye's and 'Ye got that right, chicken legs!' Once the pandemonium died down the man once again cleared his throat and continued, "Yes, as I was saying, it would take a greater man then myself to give full justice to this tale but I would feel most honored to be allowed to tell it unto you this night," he struck a pose and without further ado began his tale.
It turned out the man's modesty was indeed false for in a few minutes his audience was spellbound by the sound of his voice. The tale he wove was wondrous; it fairly painted a picture of the great dragon Hephaestus whom the cunning renegade-drow had defeated not with his sword but by his wits. It told of wicked sorcerers and somehow managed to make even the Harpells sound not only heroic but mentally stable as well. All in all Drizzt wished he had seen some of the battles the man claimed he had fought and won. He unconsciously began to trace old scars he had received from some of the more recognizable ones, scars the storyteller seemed to brush over the receiving of.
Two hours later Drizzt began to feel sick as he realized they were nearing the final battle with Errtu. Maybe, he thought, just maybe he doesn't know of it or believes it to have been done by someone else. But Drizzt knew deep down that the man had not and began to withdraw into himself, to turn off his senses until he had entered an almost dream-like state where he was only vaguely aware of what was going on around him. Just before he did enter the trance which serves elves instead of actual sleep he heard a man yell, "And what about after the battle with the King of the Abyss? What happened to Drizzt Dudden after that?"
"I'm glad you asked that my friend," replied the storyteller, "For after that great encounter, Drizzt was seen off and on for nearly twenty years before he died," a gasp ran around the room.
"How did he die?" asked one of the serving girls, who had become thoroughly engrossed in the story.
"Well, my lady, it is not truly known. Some suspect that the evil minions of the Demon Lord had their revenge and dragged him down into the Abyss to live in torment for eternity. Others say that his goddess took him directly into her arms. But there are some..." he lay a sly finger on the side of his long nose, "There are some who claim that he is still alive. And perhaps he is, my friends, perhaps he is in here at this very moment listening in on our tale," Drizzt looked up sharply, fearing he might have been discovered but the taleteller had taken no notice of him and was now taking his bows and holding out his hat for any extra tips that the patrons wished to give him.
Once the crowd the crowd had dispersed enough Drizzt followed the bard up to his quarters and before he went in the room laid a gloved hand on his shoulder.
"Tell me," he whispered into the startled mans ear, "How did Drizzt Do'Urden die?"
The man spun around quickly with a frightened grin on his face, "Well, like I said in the common room..." he started but Drizzt pulled out a small dagger holding it right against the man's throat repeated the question.
The grin melted off the man's face and he said in a much more oratorical tone, "Well, my friend, he in fact did not die because he never lived! The actual character was just a story written long ago by a bemused poet most likely who wanted to entertain the masses like those plebeians below with the story of a recognizable anomaly. I myself have meet a drow and the idea of one becoming a *ranger* of all things is preposterous! But there are a few misguided fools out there who believe that he might have lived and the dwarves of Mithral Hall staunchly believe that he and that Bruenor Battlehammer rediscovered their dwarven homeland. Nonsense really, as mythical as the lost city of Ascarle," he finished as if ending a lecture to a particularly dim-witted student before remembering the presence of the dagger and promptly paling.
"Are there any reliable sources that proves that he actually existed?" pressed Drizzt.
The man gulped and nearly nicked his Adam's apple. "Only the diaries of the late Ruler of Silverymoon, Alustriel, may she rest in peace," he gasped.
The bard thought he heard a sharp intake of breath and a choked sob come from inside the hood but he couldn't be sure, "Alustriel is dead?" came a hoarse whisper
The storyteller nodded as much as he dared, "More then a decade ago. She out lived nearly all of her sisters, you know. A fine lady, right up to the end, I saw her at a distance once," there it was again, the quickly stifled sob. "Please, my good sir, it is late and I am weary. Good night," he turned to leave but Drizzt once again grabbed his shoulder forcefully but this time the effort caused his hood to drop just as the taleteller turned around.
The bard stared up at him in absolute horror, his left eye twitching madly as his gaze ran up and down the drow before him. His mouth opened and closed like a fish on the beach gasping for air. Before he could cry out for help Drizzt raised his hand in a peaceful gesture to calm him.
"You need not fear. *I* am Drizzt Do'Urden. I merely needed some information," he said sadly, but to no affect. This meant nothing to the bard, who had recovered his voice and was yelling at the top of his lungs for help. When the storyteller looked again though, the dark elf was gone.
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As Drizzt fled the tavern he realized that once again his heritage had come back to haunt him. With his supposed death not only had he lost all that he had worked so hard to gain but also was now only remembered as a fairy tale. But this time he had not the strength to rise again from the ashes, to re-declare that unlike his brethren he was not evil. There was only one place left for him, the very thought of sent shivers of disgust down his spine for long ago he had left there and never looked back but then he had been untarnished, naïve but strong and shining with the light of his beliefs.
But there was no other alternative, nowhere else to go. With a leaden heart Drizzt resolved to return to the place of his birth. To once again return to the vilest of cities, Menzoberranzan.
A/N: Yes, Drizzt has decided to return to Menzoberranzan and this time not to save his friends. Please don't flame me. Oh and those of you who have read Tangled Webs know that the city of Ascarle is not lost. That was actually a hint for anyone who picked it up but anyway please review!
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to RA Salvatore except for the plot and any new or minor characters I might introduce which you should be able to spot.
A/N: Well, here's the next chapter. It's a little lighter then the others and contains a few (probably bad) attempts at humor and a twist at the end. By the way, I'd like to thank everyone who reviewed and give them a big cyber hug. Oh, especially one for Salak *hugs*.
I started out clean but I'm jaded
Just folding it in
Just breaking my skin
Can you help me, I'm bent
I'm so scared that I'll never
Get put back together
Bent by Matchbox Twenty
_________________________
"Would ye like another drink there, matey?" serving wench asked the dark, solitary figure in a voice that was supposed to sound enthusiastic but by this hour of the night was simply bored. The lone man waved her away, indicating that he hadn't even sipped from his first round. The wench muttered something to herself and went off to serve another 'matey'.
The tavern itself was called the 'Drunken Sailor' and was designed to make men of that occupation feel at home. Even though it was a port city most sailor's avoided it since when they came in from the sea they weren't too anxious to be hailed as 'matey' and 'landlubber'; it got on their nerves.
Tonight the tavern was actually a bit fuller then usual. Supposedly a wandering bard was looking for lodgings and would entertain the common room to pay his keep. The rumor proved true and within a few minutes a rather nervous looking fellow with a long nose and a slight tick in his left eye stood up on a crate in front of the room.
"I say, I say, can everyone hear me?" he called out, though only a few men looked up, not including the dark stranger who was still bent over his mug.
"To...tonight I shall be telling the tale of the two lovers..." he was drowned out by a chorus of boo's around the tavern. "Oh. Not a favorite I see," he giggled nervously. "Let's see... in that case I will be telling the tale of the mythical hero..." he looked around waiting for more signs of distaste and continued, after hearing none, "The tale of the mythical hero, Drizzt Do'Urden!"
Silence. Drizzt himself, wrapped tightly in his dark cloak finally looked up from his tankard to stare in shock at the man. But the tale-spinner seemed to take confidence from the silence and with a dramatic clearing of his throat he began. "Almost a century ago, before you or I were born and during which our own sires were only youngsters, no older then your own children, there lived a great hero, a drow ranger, by the name of Drizzt Do'Urden."
"Now, it would take a greater man then me to fully give justice to this tale..." he was drowned out again by a chorus of 'aye's and 'Ye got that right, chicken legs!' Once the pandemonium died down the man once again cleared his throat and continued, "Yes, as I was saying, it would take a greater man then myself to give full justice to this tale but I would feel most honored to be allowed to tell it unto you this night," he struck a pose and without further ado began his tale.
It turned out the man's modesty was indeed false for in a few minutes his audience was spellbound by the sound of his voice. The tale he wove was wondrous; it fairly painted a picture of the great dragon Hephaestus whom the cunning renegade-drow had defeated not with his sword but by his wits. It told of wicked sorcerers and somehow managed to make even the Harpells sound not only heroic but mentally stable as well. All in all Drizzt wished he had seen some of the battles the man claimed he had fought and won. He unconsciously began to trace old scars he had received from some of the more recognizable ones, scars the storyteller seemed to brush over the receiving of.
Two hours later Drizzt began to feel sick as he realized they were nearing the final battle with Errtu. Maybe, he thought, just maybe he doesn't know of it or believes it to have been done by someone else. But Drizzt knew deep down that the man had not and began to withdraw into himself, to turn off his senses until he had entered an almost dream-like state where he was only vaguely aware of what was going on around him. Just before he did enter the trance which serves elves instead of actual sleep he heard a man yell, "And what about after the battle with the King of the Abyss? What happened to Drizzt Dudden after that?"
"I'm glad you asked that my friend," replied the storyteller, "For after that great encounter, Drizzt was seen off and on for nearly twenty years before he died," a gasp ran around the room.
"How did he die?" asked one of the serving girls, who had become thoroughly engrossed in the story.
"Well, my lady, it is not truly known. Some suspect that the evil minions of the Demon Lord had their revenge and dragged him down into the Abyss to live in torment for eternity. Others say that his goddess took him directly into her arms. But there are some..." he lay a sly finger on the side of his long nose, "There are some who claim that he is still alive. And perhaps he is, my friends, perhaps he is in here at this very moment listening in on our tale," Drizzt looked up sharply, fearing he might have been discovered but the taleteller had taken no notice of him and was now taking his bows and holding out his hat for any extra tips that the patrons wished to give him.
Once the crowd the crowd had dispersed enough Drizzt followed the bard up to his quarters and before he went in the room laid a gloved hand on his shoulder.
"Tell me," he whispered into the startled mans ear, "How did Drizzt Do'Urden die?"
The man spun around quickly with a frightened grin on his face, "Well, like I said in the common room..." he started but Drizzt pulled out a small dagger holding it right against the man's throat repeated the question.
The grin melted off the man's face and he said in a much more oratorical tone, "Well, my friend, he in fact did not die because he never lived! The actual character was just a story written long ago by a bemused poet most likely who wanted to entertain the masses like those plebeians below with the story of a recognizable anomaly. I myself have meet a drow and the idea of one becoming a *ranger* of all things is preposterous! But there are a few misguided fools out there who believe that he might have lived and the dwarves of Mithral Hall staunchly believe that he and that Bruenor Battlehammer rediscovered their dwarven homeland. Nonsense really, as mythical as the lost city of Ascarle," he finished as if ending a lecture to a particularly dim-witted student before remembering the presence of the dagger and promptly paling.
"Are there any reliable sources that proves that he actually existed?" pressed Drizzt.
The man gulped and nearly nicked his Adam's apple. "Only the diaries of the late Ruler of Silverymoon, Alustriel, may she rest in peace," he gasped.
The bard thought he heard a sharp intake of breath and a choked sob come from inside the hood but he couldn't be sure, "Alustriel is dead?" came a hoarse whisper
The storyteller nodded as much as he dared, "More then a decade ago. She out lived nearly all of her sisters, you know. A fine lady, right up to the end, I saw her at a distance once," there it was again, the quickly stifled sob. "Please, my good sir, it is late and I am weary. Good night," he turned to leave but Drizzt once again grabbed his shoulder forcefully but this time the effort caused his hood to drop just as the taleteller turned around.
The bard stared up at him in absolute horror, his left eye twitching madly as his gaze ran up and down the drow before him. His mouth opened and closed like a fish on the beach gasping for air. Before he could cry out for help Drizzt raised his hand in a peaceful gesture to calm him.
"You need not fear. *I* am Drizzt Do'Urden. I merely needed some information," he said sadly, but to no affect. This meant nothing to the bard, who had recovered his voice and was yelling at the top of his lungs for help. When the storyteller looked again though, the dark elf was gone.
_______________________
As Drizzt fled the tavern he realized that once again his heritage had come back to haunt him. With his supposed death not only had he lost all that he had worked so hard to gain but also was now only remembered as a fairy tale. But this time he had not the strength to rise again from the ashes, to re-declare that unlike his brethren he was not evil. There was only one place left for him, the very thought of sent shivers of disgust down his spine for long ago he had left there and never looked back but then he had been untarnished, naïve but strong and shining with the light of his beliefs.
But there was no other alternative, nowhere else to go. With a leaden heart Drizzt resolved to return to the place of his birth. To once again return to the vilest of cities, Menzoberranzan.
A/N: Yes, Drizzt has decided to return to Menzoberranzan and this time not to save his friends. Please don't flame me. Oh and those of you who have read Tangled Webs know that the city of Ascarle is not lost. That was actually a hint for anyone who picked it up but anyway please review!
