The drow bore little worry for Sypha after witnessing her abilities. His mind lingered on her for a few moments merely out of habit. Call it sentimentality, but Drizzt was always one to over care, especially when it came to his companions. Thoughts slowly turned to his own situation. The separation of the forces would make it more manageable for him.
For all his elven heritage, he did not possess the gifts of a mage. His true skill laid in the swords he brandished in his hands. He could not draw his foes out into the open and simply freeze them or light them ablaze. His tactics required slightly more finesse. He quickly made his way back into the caves, to the corpse of the dragon they had left. With a grace and swiftness beyond any mortal, the drow scaled quickly upward to a precipice above the entrance.
The magic slowly stirred from the statue that he always kept with him and at once Guenhwyvar appeared, great yellow eyes gazing back into those violet hues. A slender hand comes up them, firmly, tenderly patting upon the mighty cat's side. Drizzt brings his head close to her then, resting it gently upon her in reverence for a few moments.
From Menzoberranzan, to the horrors of the Underdark, to the frozen wastes of Iceland Dale, and everywhere in between.
The panther had always been there by his side.
"Hunt well, my oldest friend."
And at once she leapt with a mighty bound to the ledges beyond his perch, disappearing at once into the shadows like a ghost. Difficult even for the eyes of one trained in the Underdark to find.
They did not have to wait long, for the rest of the war band quickly came clamoring into the chamber, completely unaware of the trap they had entered. Just as they came together to view the fallen dragon, Drizzt conjured an orb of darkness upon them, and fell with silent grace into the fray, along with Guenhwyvar. Shouts and screams were short lived as the two danced, sword and fang and claw amongst them. By the time the spell faded the battle was nearly over. Three warriors remained, one rushed toward the exit and was overtaken by the panther in a single bound crushed to death at once.
That left the last two warriors standing face to face with Drizzt.
"Run and be eaten, or come and face me like warriors."
With a flick of his wrists he flung the gore from his blades, and the combat began once more, the two men deciding that they would rather take their chances with the drow.
Steel rang out in the tight chamber, the sound snapping off the stone like hammer blows. The two warriors came at him together, one broad-shouldered with a notched longsword held high, the other leaner, quicker, keeping low with a wicked hand-axe and a cautious, sidling step as if he meant to catch Drizzt’s legs while his companion pressed the kill.
Drizzt gave them neither line nor rhythm.
He flowed backward a half step, only a half, just enough to invite the first swing then pivoted as the longsword came down. Twinkle met the blade with a bright, singing deflection, not stopping it so much as redirecting it, sending the stroke skittering past Drizzt’s shoulder and biting sparks from the stone.
The axe-man saw the opening and lunged in, grinning through bared teeth, but Drizzt’s other scimitar, Icingdeath was already moving. The drow slid inside the rush, his elbows close, his motions small and precise. The axe snapped toward his ribs.
The curved edge of Icingdeath caught the axe-handle near the head—not to block, but to hook. In the same motion Drizzt stepped across the attacker’s centerline, his hip turning like a door on a hinge. The axe-man’s momentum did the rest. There was a sharp twist, the handle wrenched sideways, and the weapon tore free of the warrior’s grip with a startled bark of surprise.
The disarmed man reached instinctively for his belt knife.
Drizzt’s boot flashed up, more a shove than a kick, driving the man backward and off balance, his shoulders slamming the stone. Before he could recover, Twinkle was there, silver arc catching torchlight, and the warrior’s breath cut off in a single, final gasp as he crumpled down the wall.
The remaining swordsman hesitated, eyes wide now, the bravado bleeding away as he realized he stood alone.
Drizzt said softly, and there was no mockery in it—only cold certainty.
The man snarled, forcing courage into his voice, and rushed anyway, sweeping his blade in a broad cut meant to herd Drizzt into the corner. Drizzt answered with speed: Twinkle met steel, Icingdeath slipped beneath, and the drow turned the exchange into a dance of angles, giving ground, stealing it back, never where the man expected.
The swordsman feinted high and thrust low.
Drizzt let the thrust come close enough to whisper against his cloak, then spun away on the ball of his foot. Guenhwyvar’s shadow moved with him, silent as spilled ink. The panther did not pounce—not yet—but the flash of pale eyes at the edge of the man’s vision broke his focus for the smallest heartbeat.
It was all Drizzt needed.
He slid in, not striking at the man’s body, but at the weapon—Twinkle tapping the flat of the blade, Icingdeath snapping across the guard with a sharp, biting twist. The longsword jolted, rang, and suddenly pointed the wrong way. The man fought to recover, arms straining, but Drizzt’s scimitars scissored around the hilt like shears.
With one clean motion, Drizzt stripped the sword aside and stepped into the open line.
The swordsman’s eyes met his for an instant—rage, fear, regret all tangled together—and then Drizzt ended it with a single swift stroke that left no time for another scream.
Silence rushed back in, heavy and absolute, broken only by the faint drip of water somewhere in the dark and the low, rumbling breath of Guenhwyvar. The panther padded close, brushing Drizzt’s leg once as if to confirm the fight was truly finished.
Drizzt stood over the fallen, both blades lowered now, their points angled toward the stone.
“May your gods judge you more kindly than you judged others.”
The words leave his lips, and with a bow of his head, Drizzt begins tending to the corpses, dressing each one with respect, unable to leave them massacred like the countless victims they had left in their wake, such was the duty of a ranger.
By the time Sypha arrived, he was nearly finished. The dead lined up in row, weapons tucked in hands, arms crossed over. Drizzt is stained crimson from the battle, stopping to greet her only once he has finished with the last of them.
"I see you are unharmed.... and clean."
The last word is added as a bit of a joke, a brief smile showing upon his lips seeing her well.
