The minor nicks and scratches were a small price to pay. Mooshie had bidden me not to live as he had, and the old ranger’s perceptions, as always, proved true. On my journeys throughout the northland I retained something―hope—that I never would have held if I had remained a hermit in the evergreen grove. As each new village showed on the horizon, a tingle of anticipation quickened my steps. One day, I was determined, I would find acceptance and find my home.
It would happen suddenly, I imagined. I would approach a gate, speak a formal greeting, then reveal myself as a dark elf. Even my fantasy was tempered by reality, for the gate would not swing wide at my approach. Rather, I would be allowed guarded entry, a trial period much like the one I endured in Blingdenstone, the svirfneblin city. Suspicions would linger about me for many months, but in the end, principles would be seen and accepted for what they were; the character of the person would outweigh the color of his skin and the reputation of his heritage.
I replayed that fantasy countless times over the years. Every word of every meeting in my imagined town became a litany against the continued rejections. It would not have been enough, but always there was Guenhwyvar, and now there was Mielikki.
20. Years and Miles
The Harvest Inn in Westbridge was a favorite gathering place for travelers along the Long Road that stretched between the two great northern cities of Waterdeep and Mirabar. Aside from comfortable bedding at reasonable rates, the Harvest offered Derry’s Tavern and Eatery, a renowned story-swapping bar where on any night of any week a guest might find adventurers from regions as varied as Luskan and Sundabar. The hearth was bright and warm, the drinks were plentiful, and the yarns woven in Derry’s were ones that would be told and retold all across the realms.
Roddy kept the cowl of his worn traveling cloak pulled low about him, hiding his scarred face, as he tore into his mutton and biscuits. The old yellow dog sat on the floor beside him, growling, and every now and then Roddy absently dropped it a piece of meat.
The ravenous bounty hunter rarely lifted his head from the plate, but Roddy’s bloodshot eyes peered suspiciously from the shadows of his cowl. He knew some of the ruffians gathered in Derry’s this night, personally or by reputation, and he wouldn’t trust them any more than they, if they were wise, would trust him.
One tall man recognized Roddy’s dog as he passed the table and stopped, thinking to greet the bounty hunter. The tall man walked away silently, though, realizing that miserable McGristle wasn’t really worth the effort. No one knew exactly what had happened those years before in the mountains near Maldobar, but Roddy had come out of that region deeply scarred, physically and emotionally. Always a surly one, McGristle now spent more time growling than talking.
Roddy gnawed a bit longer then dropped the thick bone down to his dog and wiped his greasy hands on his cloak, inadvertently brushing back the side of his cowl that hid his gruesome scars. Roddy quickly pulled the cowl back down, his gaze darting about for anyone who might have noticed. A single disgusted glance had cost several men their lives where Roddy’s scars were concerned.
No one seemed to notice, though, not this time. Most of those who weren’t busily eating were over at the bar, arguing loudly.
“Never was it!” one man growled.
“I told you what I saw!” another shot back. “And I told you right!”
“To yer eyes!” the first shouted back, and still another put in, “Ye’d not know one if ye seen one!” Several of the men closed in, bumping chest to chest.
“Stand quiet!” came a voice. A man pushed out of the throng and pointed straight at Roddy, who, not recognizing the man, instinctively dropped his hand to Bleeder, his well-worn axe.
“Ask McGristle!” the man cried. “Roddy McGristle. He knows about dark elves better than any.”
A dozen conversations sprouted up at once as the whole group, looking like some amorphous rolling blob, slid over toward Roddy. Roddy’s hand was off Bleeder again, crossing fingers with the other one on the table in front of him.
“Ye’re McGristle, are ye?” the man asked Roddy, showing the bounty hunter a good measure of respect.
“Might that I am,” Roddy replied calmly, enjoying the attention. He hadn’t been surrounded by a group so interested in what he had to say since the Thistledown clan had been found murdered.
“Aw,” a disgruntled voice piped in from somewhere in the back, “what’s he know about dark elves.”
Roddy’s glare sent those in front back a step, and he noticed the movement. He liked the feeling, liked being important again, respected.
“Drow elf killed my dog,” he said gruffly. He reached down and yanked up the old yellow hound’s head, displaying the scar. “And dented this one’s head. Damned dark elf—” he said deliberately, easing the cowl back from his face—”gave me this.” Normally Roddy hid the hideous scars, but the crowd’s gasps and mumbles sounded immensely satisfying to the wretched bounty hunter. He turned to the side, gave them a full view, and savored the reaction for as long as he could.
“Black-skinned and white-haired?” asked a short, fat-bellied man, the one who had begun the debate back at the bar with his own tale of a dark elf.
“Would have to be if he was a dark elf,” Roddy huffed back. The man looked about triumphantly.
“That is what I tried to tell them,” he said to Roddy. “They claim that I saw a dirty elf, or an orc maybe, but I knew it was a drow!”
“If ye see a drow,” Roddy said grimly and deliberately, weighing every word with importance, “then ye know ye seen a drow. And ye’ll not forget that ye seen a drow! And let any man that doubts yer words go and find a drow for himself. He’ll come back to ye with a word of bein’ sorry!”
“Well, I seen a dark elf,” the man proclaimed. “I was camping in Lurkwood, north of Grunwald. Peaceful enough night, I thought, so I let the fire up a bit to beat the cold wind. Well, in walked this stranger without a warning, without a word!”
Every man in the group hung on the words now, hearing them in a different light now that the drow-scarred stranger had somewhat confirmed the tale.
“Without a word, or a bird call, or nothing!” the fat-bellied man went on. “He had his cloak pulled low, suspicious, so I said to him, ‘What are you about?’
“ ‘Searching for a place that my companions and I may camp the night,’ he answered, calm as you may. Seemed reasonable enough to me, but I still did not like that low cowl.
“ ‘Pull back your hood then,’ I told him. ‘I share nothing without seeing a man’s face.’ He considered my words a minute, then he moved his hands up, real slow,”—the man imitated the movement dramatically, glancing around to ensure that he had everyone’s attention.
“I needed to see nothing more!” the man cried suddenly, and everyone, though they had heard the same tale told the same way only a moment before, jumped back in surprise. “His hands were as black as coal and as slender as an elf’s. I knew then, but I know not how I knew so surely, that it was a drow before me. A drow, I say, and let any man who doubts my words go and find a dark elf for himself!”
Roddy nodded his approval as the fat-bellied man stared down his former doubters. “Seems I’ve heard too much about dark elves lately,” the bounty hunter grumbled.
“I’ve heared of just the one,” another man piped in. “Until we spoke to you, I mean, and heard of your battle. That makes two drow in six years.”
“As I said” Roddy remarked grimly, “seems I’ve heard too much about dark—” Roddy never finished as the group exploded into exaggerated laughter around him. It seemed like the grand old times to the bounty hunter, the days when everyone about him hung tense on his every word.