Drizzt saw a somberness in the burrow-warden’s eyes, but the stout pride remained, if a bit diminished. Drizzt did not want to look upon the svirfneblin’s disfigurement; too many unpleasant memories were tied up in that long-ago deed. But, inevitably, the drow’s gaze dropped, down Belwar’s barrel-like torso to the ends of his arms, which hung by his side.

Far from his fears, Drizzt’s eyes widened in wonderment when he looked upon Belwar’s “hands”. On the right side, wondrously fitted to cap the stub of his arm, was the blocked head of a hammer crafted of mithril and etched with intricate, fabulous runes and carvings of an earth elemental and some other creatures that Drizzt did not know.

Belwar’s left appendage was no less spectacular. There the deep gnome wielded a two-headed pickaxe, also of mithril and equally crafted in runes and carvings, most notably a dragon taking flight across the flat surface of the instrument’s wider end. Drizzt could sense the magic in Belwar’s hands, and he realized that many other svirfnebli, both artisans and magic-users, had played a part in perfecting the items.

“Useful,” Belwar remarked after allowing Drizzt to study his mithril hands for a few moments.

“Beautiful,” Drizzt whispered in reply, and he was thinking of more than the hammer and pick. The hands themselves were indeed marvelous, but the implications of their crafting seemed even more so to Drizzt. If a dark elf, particularly a drow male, had crawled back into Menzoberranzan in such a disfigured state, he would have been rejected and put out by his family to wander about as a helpless rogue until some slave or other drow finally put an end to his misery. There was no room for apparent weakness in the drow culture. Here, obviously, the svirfnebli had accepted Belwar and had cared for him in the best way they knew how.

Drizzt politely returned his stare to the burrow-warden’s eyes. “You remembered me.” he said. “I had feared―”

“Later we shall talk, Drizzt Do’Urden.” Belwar interrupted. Using the svirfneblin tongue, which Drizzt did not know, the burrow-warden said to the guards, “If your business is completed, then take your leave.”

“We are at your command, Most Honored Burrow-Warden.” one of the guards replied. Drizzt noticed Belwar’s slight shudder at the mention of the title. “The king has sent us as escorts and guards, to remain by your side until the truth of this drow is revealed.”

“Be gone, then.” Belwar replied, his booming voice rising in obvious ire. He looked directly at Drizzt as he finished. “I know the truth of this one already. I am in no danger.”

“Your pardon, Most Honor―”

“You are excused.” Belwar said abruptly, seeing that the guard meant to argue. “Be gone. I have spoken for this one. He is in my care, and I fear him not at all.”

The svirfneblin guards bowed low and slowly moved away. Belwar took Drizzt inside the door, then turned him back to slyly point out that two of the guards had taken up cautious positions beside nearby structures. “Too much do they worry for my health.” he remarked dryly in the drow tongue.

“You should be grateful for such care,” Drizzt replied.

“I am not ungrateful!” Belwar shot back, an angry flush coming to his face.

Drizzt read the truth behind those words. Belwar was not ungrateful, that much was correct, but the burrow-warden did not believe that he deserved such attention. Drizzt kept his suspicions private, not wanting to further embarrass the proud svirfneblin.

The inside of Belwar’s house was sparsely furnished with a stone table and single stool, several shelves of pots and jugs, and a fire pit with an iron cooking grate. Beyond the rough-hewn entrance to the back room, the room within the small cave, was the deep gnome’s sleeping quarters, empty except for a hammock strung from wall to wall. Another hammock, newly acquired for Drizzt, lay in a heap on the floor, and a leather, mithril-ringed jack hung on the back wall, with a pile of sacks and pouches underneath it.

“In the entry room we shall string it,” Belwar said, pointing with his hammer-hand to the second hammock. Drizzt moved to get the item, but Belwar caught him with his pick-hand and spun him about.

“Later,” the svirfneblin explained. “First you must tell me why you have come.” He studied Drizzt’s battered clothing and scuffed and dirty face. It was obvious that the drow had been out in the wilds for some time. “And tell me, too, you must, where you have come from.”

Drizzt flopped down on the stone floor and put his back against the wall. “I came because I had nowhere else to go,” he answered honestly.

“How long have you been out of your city, Drizzt Do’Urden?” Belwar asked him softly. Even in quieter tones, the solid deep gnome’s voice rang out with the clarity of a finely tuned bell. Drizzt marveled at its emotive range and how it could convey sincere compassion or inspire fear with subtle changes of volume.

Drizzt shrugged and let his head roll back so that his gaze was raised to the ceiling. His mind already looked down a road to his past. “Years―I have lost count of the time.” He looked back to the svirfneblin. “Time has little meaning in the open passages of the Underdark.”

From Drizzt’s ragged appearance, Belwar could not doubt the truth of his words, but the deep gnome was surprised nonetheless. He moved over to the table in the center of the room and took a seat on a stool. Belwar had witnessed Drizzt in battle, had once seen the drow defeat an earth elemental―no easy feat! But if Drizzt was indeed speaking the truth, if he had survived alone out in the wilds of the Underdark for years, then the burrow-warden’s respect for him would be even more considerable.

“Of your adventures, you must tell me, Drizzt Do’Urden,” Belwar prompted. “I wish to know everything about you, so that I may better understand your purpose in coming to a city of your racial enemies.”

Drizzt paused for a long time, wondering where and how to begin. He trusted Belwar―what other choice did he have?―but he wasn’t sure if the svirfneblin could begin to understand the dilemma that had forced him out of the security of Menzoberranzan. Could Belwar, living in a community of such obvious friendship and cooperation, understand the tragedy that was Menzoberranzan? Drizzt doubted it, but again, what choice did he have?

Drizzt quietly recounted to Belwar the story of the last decade of his life; of the impending war between House Do’Urden and House Hun’ett; of his meeting with Masoj and Alton, when he acquired Guenhwyvar; of the sacrifice of Zaknafein, Drizzt’s mentor, father, and friend; and of his subsequent decision to forsake his kin and their evil deity, Lloth. Belwar realized that Drizzt was talking about the dark goddess the deep gnomes called Lolth, but he calmly let the regionalism pass. If Belwar had any suspicions at all, not really knowing Drizzt’s true intent on that day when they had met many years before, the burrow-warden soon came to believe that his guesses about this drow had been accurate. Belwar found himself shuddering and trembling as Drizzt told of life in the Underdark, of his encounter with the basilisk, and the battle with his brother and sister.

Before Drizzt even mentioned his reason for seeking the svirfnebli―the agony of his loneliness and the fear that he was losing his very identity in the savagery necessary to survive in the wilds―Belwar had guessed it all. When Drizzt came to the final days of his life outside of Blingdenstone, he picked his words carefully. Drizzt had not yet come to terms with his feelings and fears of who he truly was, and he was not yet ready to divulge his thoughts, however much he trusted his new companion.

The burrow-warden sat silently, just looking at Drizzt when the drow had finished his tale. Belwar understood the pain of the recounting. He did not prod for more information or ask for details of personal anguish that Drizzt had not openly shared.