R. Salvatore - Night of the Hunter

Tiago grinned and turned to Ravel, who was similarly beaming. “Plenty of time,” the wizard agreed.

Gromph Baenre and Methil learned much more from Dahlia that day than Ravel and the others had discerned, not that those lesser drow would have understood the startling revelations anyway. Gromph wasn’t even certain that he understood it all, but in the greater context of the events all around them-the coming Darkening; the war Matron Mother Quenthel was determined to wage; a war for the glory of Lolth and the widening of her realm of influence to the sphere of the arcane; a war to wound the rogue Do’Urden and by extension, the goddess who had stood by him to pull him from Lolth’s clutches-the important role of this miserable darthiir known as Dahlia had truly surprised him.

Gromph was not one to be surprised easily.

He left Gauntlgrym that day, with a word of warning to Tiago to be quick to Matron Mother Quenthel’s call, and another warning to him to keep the woman Dahlia alive. Unbeknownst to the Xorlarrins other than Berellip, whom he swore to secrecy, Gromph did not take his companion mind flayer with him. Methil still had work to do here.

Gromph did not expect to see Tiago marching back into the Baenre compound anytime soon, for of course the archmage had recognized that the sneaky little Ravel Xorlarrin had spied upon him and likely knew some of what Dahlia had divulged regarding the last place she had seen Drizzt Do’Urden. Almost certainly, Ravel was even then plotting with Tiago to go and confront the rogue.

So be it, Gromph decided, for this was not his play, but the game of Lolth and of Matron Mother Quenthel. He would play his role as directed, and nothing more.

He was barely back in his chambers in Sorcere, Dahlia barely back in her hanging cage in the Forge of Gauntlgrym, when the Xorlarrin strike force, led by Tiago, Ravel, Jearth, and Saribel, set out on the hunt through the tunnels to the north.

Even in this crazy world, where magic runs in wild cycles and wilder circles, where orcs appear suddenly by the tens of thousands and pirates become kings, there are moments of clarity and predictability, where the patterns align into expected outcomes. These I call the rhymes of history.

Regis came to us just ahead of pursuit, a dangerous foe indeed.

The rhyme of history, the comfort of predictability!

He is very different in this second life, this halfling friend of ours. Determined, skilled, practiced with the blade, Regis has lived his second life with purpose and focused on a clear goal. And when the lich arrived at our encampment that dark night in the wilderlands of the Crags, Regis did not flee. Nay, he called out for us to flee while he continued to try to battle the fearsome monster.

But for all of those alterations, the whole of the experience rang with the comfort of familiarity.

The rhyme of history.

I have heard this truth of reasoning beings mentioned often, particularly among the elves, and most particularly among the eldest of the elves, who have seen the sunrise and sunset of several centuries. Little surprises them, even the tumultuous events like the Time of Troubles and the Spellplague, for they have heard the rhyme many times. And this expected reality is so, particularly concerning the rise and fall of kingdoms and empires. They follow a course, an optimistic climb, an ascent through the glories of possibility. Sometimes they get there, sparkling jewels in periods of near perfection-the height of Myth Drannor, the glory of Waterdeep, and yes, I would include the rebirth of Clan Battlehammer in Mithral Hall. This is the promise and the hope.

But the cycle wheels along and far too often, the fall is as predictable as the rise.

Is it the ambition or the weakness of sentient races, I wonder, that leads to this cycle, this rise and fall, of cultures and kingdoms? So many begin beneficent and with grand hopes. A new way, a new day, a bright sunrise, and a thousand other hopeful clichés …

And each and every one, it seems, falls to stagnation, and in that stagnation evil men rise, through greed or lust for power. Like canker buds, they find their way in any government, slipping through seams in the well-intended laws, coaxing the codes to their advantage, finding their treasures and securing their well-being at the expense of all others, and ever blaming the helpless, who have no voice and no recourse. To the laborers they cry, “Beware the leech!” and the leech is the infirm, the elderly, the downtrodden.

So do they deflect and distort reality itself to secure their wares, and yet, they are never secure, for this is the truest rhyme of history, that when the theft is complete, so will the whole collapse, and in that collapse will fall the downtrodden and the nobility alike.

And the misery and pain will feast in the fields and in the sea and in the forest, in the laborers and the farmers, the fishermen and the hunters, and in those who sow and those who eat.

For the rhyme of history is a sullen one, I fear, ringing as a klaxon of warning, and fading fast into distant memory, and even to fable, while the new cankers burst from their pods and feast.

It need not be like this, but too often it is. It was my hope for something new and better, and something lasting, that led to the Treaty of Garumn’s Gorge, a path I am coming to lament.

And so I should be despondent.

But, nay, far from it, for I have witnessed divine justice now, and am blessed in the glories of those things most valuable: the truest friends and family anyone could know. With open eyes and open hearts we go, the Companions of the Hall, and well aware of the rhyme of history, and determined that those sad notes will give way to triumphant bars and soothing melodies of hope and justice. The world is chaos, but we are order.

The world is shadow, but we are determined to shine as light.

Once, not long ago, I had to coax my former companions to good deeds and selfless acts; now I am surrounded by those who drive me to the same.

For even the too-often dark truth of the rhyme of history cannot overwhelm the unceasing optimism that there is something more and better, a community for all, where the meek need not fear the strong.

We’ll find our way, and those lesser rhymes will find discordant notes, as with this lich Regis dragged upon us, this Ebonsoul creature who thought himself beyond us.

For this was part of the play, and a part expected had we looked more carefully at our halfling friend, had we remembered the truth of Rumblebelly-that same Regis who brought upon us one day long past the darkness that once was Artemis Entreri (once was, I say!).

And so we now look more carefully as we tread, for with Regis, there is something about him-an aura, a mannerism, perhaps, or a willingness to take a chance, often foolishly? — that throws a tow-rope to trouble.

So be it; perhaps, as the old saying goes, that is part of his charm.

He drags the shark to its doom, I say.

— Drizzt Do’Urden

"Well, elf, if ye got any ideas, now’d be the time to spit ’em out,” Bruenor said to Drizzt as they stepped out of the mushroom cap boat onto the small muddy beach before the underground castle wall and open doorway of Gauntlgrym. The whole of this large cavern was dimly lit by natural lichen, and around the makeshift boat, even more so by a minor light spell Catti-brie had cast on a small stone that she had picked up before entering the long tunnel leading to this place.