Bit dramatic to just take a stroll into a lake, too.
[ Underpinning all of Drizzt's gentleness is a sweet sort of sarcasm, the kind born of ribbing one another over long, warm meals and habitual yarn-spinners recounting tales of glory at increasingly false heights. ( Regis, he can remember sighing, belly warm and back braced against the strong line of Wulfgar's side, that silver tongue of yours will forever get you into trouble. To which the halfling would merely gesture with open hands and spread arms to the figures around him and cry: Of course! And why else would I keep your company, if not to bail me out in a pinch! )
It stings, like dawn through the glimmering dew in a sunny vale; beautiful to look upon, and fleeting. He is not a very good elf, sometimes, forgetting that his longevity means he would always, always have outlived the Companions of the Hall. That he is still a young thing, however old and tired he feels.
It's easy to fall into warm familiarity with Fane. He's not a hard man to want to draw close to, in his layers of cloth and inscrutable face — it makes Drizzt want to study him more, since he does not have facial muscles and skin to assist him in understanding Fane's moods. Nor does that stop him from trying. ]
I think that one was near to Narbondel, then. This one... ah, this one being in the Lake must mean —
[ She drowned me, he thinks suddenly, shocked by the fact that he feels surprised or pained at all. It must have been Malice who had done it, upon his birth. Or perhaps later on, a rival had overcome him. Perhaps Briza, or cunning Maya.
Drizzt's eyes briefly unfocus, his mind swimming like a low drone as he thinks: Or Vierna. Zak. ]
I was [ hated? used? spurned? bred for death? ] lucky to acquire the skills to survive my birth family, because I was not "a proper drow". You may have seen, but... my kind worshipped a goddess who molded us through generations to hate and isolate, for her pleasure. I still found ways to love them. And to survive my love.
[ "Surviving" his love is integral to him, sad as it seems.
Ever-so carefully, he reaches for Fane's hand, to draw it back to the delicate shard in his palm and encourage him to touch it. Then, to touch the one higher, set at the center of Drizzt's own brow — and from there: the purity of sensation. Gratitude and affection. ]
— actually, it's funny... [ And he rifles through one of his own hip satchels, drawing forth the onyx statuette of Guenhwyvar from a cushioned, velvet-lined pouch and with it... a Shard. One that echoes Fane's own, too. ]
I thought the same thing as you, of this. Dear friend, might I return it to you?
no subject
[ Underpinning all of Drizzt's gentleness is a sweet sort of sarcasm, the kind born of ribbing one another over long, warm meals and habitual yarn-spinners recounting tales of glory at increasingly false heights. ( Regis, he can remember sighing, belly warm and back braced against the strong line of Wulfgar's side, that silver tongue of yours will forever get you into trouble. To which the halfling would merely gesture with open hands and spread arms to the figures around him and cry: Of course! And why else would I keep your company, if not to bail me out in a pinch! )
It stings, like dawn through the glimmering dew in a sunny vale; beautiful to look upon, and fleeting. He is not a very good elf, sometimes, forgetting that his longevity means he would always, always have outlived the Companions of the Hall. That he is still a young thing, however old and tired he feels.
It's easy to fall into warm familiarity with Fane. He's not a hard man to want to draw close to, in his layers of cloth and inscrutable face — it makes Drizzt want to study him more, since he does not have facial muscles and skin to assist him in understanding Fane's moods. Nor does that stop him from trying. ]
I think that one was near to Narbondel, then. This one... ah, this one being in the Lake must mean —
[ She drowned me, he thinks suddenly, shocked by the fact that he feels surprised or pained at all. It must have been Malice who had done it, upon his birth. Or perhaps later on, a rival had overcome him. Perhaps Briza, or cunning Maya.
Drizzt's eyes briefly unfocus, his mind swimming like a low drone as he thinks: Or Vierna. Zak. ]
I was [ hated? used? spurned? bred for death? ] lucky to acquire the skills to survive my birth family, because I was not "a proper drow". You may have seen, but... my kind worshipped a goddess who molded us through generations to hate and isolate, for her pleasure. I still found ways to love them. And to survive my love.
[ "Surviving" his love is integral to him, sad as it seems.
Ever-so carefully, he reaches for Fane's hand, to draw it back to the delicate shard in his palm and encourage him to touch it. Then, to touch the one higher, set at the center of Drizzt's own brow — and from there: the purity of sensation. Gratitude and affection. ]
— actually, it's funny... [ And he rifles through one of his own hip satchels, drawing forth the onyx statuette of Guenhwyvar from a cushioned, velvet-lined pouch and with it... a Shard. One that echoes Fane's own, too. ]
I thought the same thing as you, of this. Dear friend, might I return it to you?