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Summary: In this tale of shenanigans and song, Drizzt Do'Urden makes new friends, the Bhaalspawn gets new gear, and the companions get away with musical madness.
For Aldorn at the Baldur's Gate Gift Exchange 2023.
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SO LONG, AND THANKS FOR ALL YOUR GEAR (Part One)
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Drizzt Do'Urden prepared himself to take a well-deserved rest.
If a well-deserved rest meant sleeping on the cold hard ground of the surface world on a bedroll more threadbare and worn than a Handmaiden's patience at a murderous instruction a decade delayed.
A grievously long journey it had been in these desolate wilds – this hapless drow warrior constantly waylaid by greedy brigands, forest animals driven mad by hunger from dwindling prey as even the rabbits had proved most vicious, and monsters roaming numerous and unchecked like that one market day in Menzoberranzan when some duergar slave had forgotten to lock the creatures' cages.
Today he had been accosted by no less than a pack of gnolls. He could have made short work of these beasts, but days of wandering and unending skirmishes had left him wearied and hungered.
Surely he would have fallen, slain without mercy nor dignity in this blinding and harsh surface world were it not for the timely intervention by certain surfacers.
A group of adventurers, whose races and professions and personalities were as diverse as the torture devices owned by a Handmaiden of Lolth.
Drizzt gratefully beamed to himself, an odd spark of insight warming his heart.
For though this motley crew seemed patchier than a house patron's piwafwi that had survived a century's worth of assassination attempts – still there was that undeniable thread of companionship binding these strange fellows together.
Such as that peculiar pair – the halfling rogue and the rivvil wizard. The former always gruff and scandalous in his manner of speaking and so quick to portend a messy end with his daggers, and the latter obviously touched in the head but otherwise Mostly Harmless.
To see them constantly bicker and threaten each other reminded him of the Matron Mothers and their consorts of his former home in the Underdark. Loyalty and repugnance reciprocated between them that spoke of almost half a millennia saddled with each other's bitter company.
And the human warrior woman, thorny as the horns gracing her helm, tongue as sharp as the short swords she wielded. How much it amused him to deflect her demands to test his mettle – obviously eager to learn of new dual-bladed techniques. A wonderful student she would have made to the Handmaidens, no doubt quick to surpass them in their cruelty and hatred for the male species.
What of the red-robed human mage? Arrogant and invariably peppering his speech with sneers and ripostes. Competent and callous, he would have found affinity among those of the Sorcere and even rise to the ranks of an archmage. That is, if he could stop muttering his schemes too loudly for the hearing of every drow within a league's stretch.
Of the lone dwarf among their company – his beard as dark as his greedy soul. Drizzt had inquired if he were somehow kin to the churlish duergar. He was answered instead with pointed questions about the gray dwarves' manner of profiteering. Well, how would Drizzt know of such observations when the only trade he knew of them were in blood and body parts dismembered in battle?
And then there be the drow priestess.
When he first beheld her among their group, it was all he could do to keep from either giving in to his innate sense of self-preservation by fleeing for dear life. Or giving in to his ingrained habit of falling prostrate in abhorrent reverence. But she bore the symbol, not of the Queen of Spiders, but of the Nightsinger. What great courage she bore to defy Lolth and forsake her own house!
Fortunately, despite the familiar haughtiness and stinging disdain with which she addressed him, she kept insisting he would find no succor from her and that she is No Sister of His.
What great relief to be assured by those words, Mielikki be praised. Another rare day where a drow woman didn't require he make acquaintance with a tentacle rod.
And what a bizarrely aberrant group they were, crass and selfish yet Drizzt found a strange sense of consolation in their presence. He beamed down an indulgent smile at his animal companion, the panther Guenhwyvar. It glanced up at him, snorting balefully yet unable to do more than yawn and rest her great head upon her paws.
Many hours had already passed since he had summoned Guenhwyvar, and being away from the astral plane for an extended period had left the great feline drowsy and sluggish. But the panther refused to return, wary of Drizzt's new helpers but unable to keep herself from basking in the lavish attentions and food showered upon her by the drow priestess and rivvil woman.
Thus, Drizzt allowed himself a rare and welcome moment of reprieve. True, these adventurers were far from possessing a perfect heart, Drizzt acknowledged, but by their boorishness and utter lack of any charm, they were outcasts like himself, perhaps knowing of the hardships of being treated like pariahs.
But for now, he must rest a short while. After all, how considerate of these adventurers to allow him to sleep while they themselves volunteered to take nightwatch duty.
All together at the same time.
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"So lemme get this straight," Imoen drawled, narrowing an eye at their far-from-esteemed guests. "Even though we kicked out each one o' you for being evil, annoying, or just plain crazy- you still want to give us—A Gift?"
The gift in question lay upon a table, bundled so tightly as it were some great secret treasure. Never mind that it was wrapped in obviously several layers of knickers evidently stolen from someone's clothesline.
A while ago and when they had run into their former companions here in Baldur's Gate, Shar-Teel and Kagain had jointly and ardently tried to shove the parcel into the hands of Gorion's Ward like some plagued wheel of cheese – an enthusiasm which didn't dampen the Harper druid's suspicion.
Thusly, Jaheira had insisted they must all unwrap and inspect this mysterious present together with the bearers of this odd gift. And for such an uneasy occasion, they rented a private dining room in the Helm and Cloak – at Edwin's expense since he wouldn't settle for some cheap and middling tavern.
That none other than Edwin Odesseiron eagerly surrendered a portion of his personal purse to fund the whole arrangement rang warning bells the size of a bulette in everyone's heads.
"Art thou sure of this?" Dynaheir had voiced her doubt with the same royal air of a queen inquiring if the court fool would like to rehash a jest that nearly cost him his head.
"Boo says not to trust the Red Wizard and his wicked friends," Minsc had likewise cautioned with surprising sternness, the hamster perched on his shoulder and nodding along to the Rashemi's finger wagging. "For whatever it is he shall give to you - you never know if it is cursed and evil! Or just in plain red like his natty foppish garb. Or nothing more than a plain hair brush. Who brings a hair brush into battle anyways!"
But Ruthra, thought otherwise of their admonitions and accepted the invitation of his former companions.
Ruthra Tned, foster child of Gorion, champion of breakfast and morning tea, paladin-aspirant to either the Children of the Passive Voice or the Disciples of St. Morgan the Taciturn – whichever church promised more monotony, a life of zero complications and without any annoyingly draining social calls.
For Ruthra believed in second chances, if at least the second meeting meant these no-longer-friends of his would finally apologize for having been so cross with him and Imoen, and perhaps finally pay him back for the damages they caused in every inn in Beregost.
And they did promise him a gift. After all such things don't happen everyday. Namely getting something nice without having to pull it out of a still smoldering goblin corpse and wasting your last clean towel wiping off the blood and viscera from whatever it is, be it pauldrons, helmets, coin, and a shaving razor.
Khalid nicked himself badly on that last one, but Jaheira's ensuing lecture was sharper and stung more than the rusted blade.
As for the enticingly offered yet still concealed gift-
Montaron tapped at its side with the butt of his dagger. "Ye did kick us out like a sprouted potato in yer salad. But we're not a bunch of ungrateful sods like ye were when I saved yer life from that bounty hunter. That's why we're givin' ye not just one gift, but- a whole lotta other shiny things in them parcel here!"
Surprisingly, despite the promise of said shiny things, Imoen wasn't convinced. "Really? No hard feelings?"
Xzar laughed in peals melodiously unsound. "Why of course! No hard feelings. In fact – no feelings at all such as when the dermis to the stratum granulosum have been flayed bare of peripheral neuropathy. No hard feelings, such as what we hope would be felt by the former possessor of these- eeeEeeeEeeeMummyEeeeeEEeekkk!"
Montaron had stabbed the necromancer's palm, pinning Xzar to the table. "Quit yer rambling before ye give anything away, ya barmy nut!"
Xzar immediately stilled himself to deathly repose. "Why thank you for the timely reminder, Monty. You must all forgive me. These disgusting acts of charity and generosity always did summon the worst out of me."
Xzar grasped the halfling's wrist and whispered an incantation which promptly commenced a mild necrosis of his partner's flesh.
Montaron raised a brow at his decaying hand and muttered, "Yer gonna have to do more than healing that later, ye crooning cuckoo."
Shar-Teel grabbed a chair and hoisted it over the pair. "Will you two gangrenous pricks quit flapping around and get this over with? Just give the godsdamned things to that idiot knight-wannabe so I can go for some grog already!"
Threatened into surprising submission, Xzar and Montaron bobbed their heads and worked together in perfect synchonicity to unwrap the parcel and reveal its precious contents.
Suddenly, there lay before them a gleaming chainmail of dark mithril and a pair of scimitars deadly and wondrous.
Jaheira and Khalid looked over the items, both unable to conceal their astonishment.
"Where did you get this," the druid demanded sharply. "Or should we ask instead – By what nefarious means did you obtain this from Drizzt Do'Urden?"
Shar-Teel snorted, genuinely affronted. "What? How do you know it's his? Just 'cause it's all black and fancy and stinks of male?"
Khalid diffidently held up the mithral chain mail and pointed at the paint already peeling off at the lapel. "B-because it says here – I AM DRIZZT?"
The bearers of the gifts glared at the glaring evidence, but it was Viconia who smacked Kagain at the back of his head. Yet the dwarf's nape proved so thick he didn't even budge.
"You witless wael! You said you could get the etchings smoothened out," the drow hissed.
Kagain merely chuckled. "For the coppers ye gave me to do the job on a nigh-indestructible steel? Nah, they could only make do with cheap paint. I even wrangled myself a discount enough for a bottle of ale, hahah!"
Everyone sprang from their seats, the two parties glowering at one another. The Harpers and their allies slung accusations of the dubious acquisition. Meanwhile, the obviously Unbenevolent Bearers of the Gifts blamed each other for the unconvincing pitch.
All raised their voices in heated argument, oblivious to Gorion's Ward who sifted through the gear and sniffed at the chainmail's armpits with rightful skepticism.
"Oh my, this is just splendid, isn't it? A little loose in some places and quite pinching in a few, but otherwise it's quite all right."
Everyone paused and turned to Ruthra, all eyes broadening at seeing the young man now wearing the gloriously gleaming mithral chainmail. With the glee of a child receiving a sock full of sweets on the eve of Midwinter Feast, Ruthra grabbed at the scimitars and waved them about, swiping at one of the low-hanging chandeliers.
Said chandelier crashed on the table. Ruthra cowered expectantly, but Jaheira was far too preoccupied with gaping at the near improbableness of the legendary drow ranger's peerless equipment gracing their ungainly young companion.
It was Edwin who broke the silence.
"Ah, so the armor and blades prove suitable to the chimp, I mean, the postulant paladin," he said in a tone suspiciously simpering. "I say the drow's gear is fated to be his, without contest. (Now let us flee from this wretched social call before I decide to scratch the itch of burning down this whole place upon my hated foes!)."
"Not so with haste, Thayan," Dynaheir pronounced, one hand prepared for a spell, the other raised and ready to signal to her defender and his hamster. "Thou wilt speak the truth of how these treasures were attained, and pray it had not been with Drizzt's blood on thy duplicitous hands."
Edwin and his companions traded glances, egging one another to answer.
It was Viconia who replied.
"I wish my hand had been the one to deal the end to that miserable male and doer of distasteful heroic deeds. But it was gnolls who caused his downfall, weakened and wearied that he was. We merely bore witness to his enfeebled state, and seized the opportunity to take all from him without force, and leave him to the mercies of this wretched surface world. Now, can we depart from your loathsome company?"
Jaheira pointed her staff at them. "We will let you leave in peace, but only if you swear, whether on your own heads, by your ancestors, or even by your gods that you did not lift a finger to harm or kill Drizzt yourselves."
"Oh yes, yes, I swear by Kossuth (Would've fireballed that nauseating do-gooder drow but I was already running low on guano that day)."
"Yeah yeah, swears it on me Nana's grave and the grave o' the first husband she poisoned."
"I swear! I swear on the rabbit-pawed dragons!"
"By The Nightbringer, I swear. And I swear I regret not having a tentacle rod to strangle that pathetic waela."
"Whatever. I swear by the sword with which I wish I had run him through. Stupid male."
"By Vergadain, I swear. Blasted merchants wouldn't buy them from us. Too afraid someone'd say they stole it from Drizzt. Bah, cowards from coin!"
Satisfied by the oaths, they were allowed to leave without further fuss. They hightailed out of the room, much to the relief of the Harpers and the others. Everyone then turned to Ruthra who had been so smitten with his new gear that he finally absently looked up.
"Oh, they're gone so soon? I didn't even get to thank them for these lovely things!"
Imoen tutted dismissively as she proceeded to rub at a mithril scale with a thumb. Perhaps wondering if she could chip off a piece or two to sell. "Nah, forget them! If you ask me, they should've thrown in a lock of Drizzt's hair with the bunch."
Everyone stared at her.
Imoen innocently waggled her hands. "What? It's not as if I'd go around charging folks a pretty coin to take a look at a piece of the legendary Drizzt Do'Urden!"
Ruthra could only raise a brow at his friend and sighed. At least, the chainmail armor and scimitars have practical uses compared to a lock of hair. Goodness, who knows anything that can be done with a lock of hair anyways, except for wig-makers and obsessive love-struck loonies?
Khalid looked anxiously at his wife. "P-perhaps Drizzt survived. Maybe he was only too weak to keep them from stripping him of his gear and chasing after them?"
"I cannot help but be wary of this whole circumstance. But these are too useful to simply carry with us without being employed for our own defense. I say we keep these in our custody until we find some means of returning this to Drizzt himself or to any of his known friends," Jaheira replied, clicking her tongue, then pointed at Ruthra who instinctively twitched at the expectation of an admonishment.
"You, though, for your own good and the good of the party purse you've been wasting on healing potions, may wear the armor and use the scimitars for now," she said to Gorion's ward with the authority of a jailor assigning a ball and shackles to the prisoner.
Ruthra bobbed his head, fidgeted and apprehensively peeled off the rest of the unsightly paint on the lapel. Wouldn't do to be waddling about with the equivalent of a loose thread dangling from someone else's hand-me-downs.
On the other hand, it would certainly be awkward if people read it and thought he shared the same name with that poor drow fellow.
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