Station

     Station: In all the world of the drow, there is no more im-

portant word.  It is the calling of their-of our-religion, the 

incessant pulling of hungering heartstrings. Ambition overrides

good sense and compassion is thrown in its face, 

all in the name of Loth, the Spider Queen.

    Ascension to power in drow society is a simple process of

assassination.  The Spider Queen is a deity of chaos, and she

and her high priestesses, the true rulers of the drow world,

do not look with ill favor upon ambitious individuals wielding 

poisoned daggers.

    Of course, there are rules of behavior; every society must

boast these.  To openly commit murder or wage war invites 

the pretense of justice, and penalties exacted in the

name of drow justice are merciless.  To stick a dagger in the 

back of a rival during the chaos of a larger battle or in the 

quiet shadows of an alley, however, is quite acceptable-               

even applauded.  Investigation is not the forte of drow 

justice. No one cares enough to bother.

    Station is the way of Lloth, ambition she bestows to

further the chaos, to keep her drow "children" along their 

appointed course of self-imprisonment.  Children? Pawns,

more likely, dancing dolls for the Spider Queen, Puppets on

the imperceptible but impervious strands of her web.  All

Climb the Spider Queen's Ladders; all hunt for her pleasure;

and fall to the hunters of her pleasure.

    Station is the paradox of the world of wy people, the limi-

tation of our power within the hunger for power. It is

gained through treachery and envites treachery against 

those who gain it. those most powerful in Menzoberranzan

spend their days watching over their shoulders, defending

against the daggers that would find their backs. 

    Their deaths usually come from the front.



             -Drizzt Do'Urden






                         Helpless

    There have been many times in my life  when I  have felt

helpless.  It is perhaps the most  acute pain a   person can 

know, founded in frustration and ventless rage.  The  nick of

a sword upon a battling soldier's arm cannot compare  to the

anguish a prisoner feels at the crack of a whip.  Even  if the

whip does not strike the helpless prisoner's body, it surely

cuts deeply at his soul.
    
    We are all prisoners at one time or another in our lives,

prisoners  to  ourselves  or  to  the  expectations of those

around us.  It is a burden that all people endure, that all peo-

ple despise, and  few  people ever  learn to escape.  I con-

sider myself fortunate in this respect, for my life has

traveled along a fairly straight-running path of improve-

ment.  Beginning in Menzoberranzan, under the relentless

scrutiny of the evil Spider Queen's high priestesses, I sup-

pose that my situation could only have improved.

    In my stubborn youth, I believe that i could stand alone,

that  I was  strong enough to  conquer  my enemies with

sword and with principles.  Arrogance convinced me that

by sheer determination, I could conquer helplessness itself.

Stubborn and foolish youth, I must admit, for when I look

back on those years now, I see quite clearly that rarely did I

stand alone and rarely did I have to stand alone.  Always

there were friends, true and dear, lending me support even

when I belived I did not want it, and even when I did not

realize they were doing it.

     Zaknafein, Belwar, Clacker, Mooshie, Bruenor, Regis,

Catti-brie, Wulfgar, and of course, Guenhwyvar, dear Guen-

hwyvar.  These were the companions who justified my prin-

ciples, Who gave me the strength to continue against any

foe, real or imagined.  These were the companions who 

fought the helplessness, the rage, and the frustration.

     These were the friends who gave me my life.


                   -Drizzt Do'Urden