“A knucklehead trout on the gaff,” Catti-brie said of one unusual cloud formation, a curving oblong before a trailing, thin line of white.

“How do you see that?” the dark elf protested with a laugh.

Catti-brie turned her head to regard her black-skinned, violet-eyed companion. “How do ye' not?” she asked. “It's as plain as the white line o' yer own eyebrows.”

Drizzt laughed again, but not so much at what the woman was saying, but rather, at how she was saying it. She was living with Bruenor's clan again in the dwarven mines just outside of Ten-Towns, and the mannerisms and accent of the rough-and-tumble dwarves were obviously again wearing off on her.

Drizzt turned his head a bit toward the woman, as well, his right eye barely a couple of inches from Catti-brie's. He saw the sparkle there—it was unmistakable—a look of contentment and happiness only now returning in the months since Wulfgar had left them, a look that seemed, in fact, even more intense than ever before.

Drizzt laughed and looked back up at the sky. “Your fish got away,” he announced, for the wind had blown the thin line away from the larger shape,

“It is a fish,” Catti-brie insisted petulantly—or at least, the woman made it sound as if she was being petulant.

Smiling, Drizzt didn't pursue the argument.

* * * * * * * * * * *

“Ye durn fool little one!” Bruenor Battlehammer grumbled and growled, spittle flying as his frustration increased. The dwarf stopped and stamped his hard boot ferociously on the ground, then smacked his one-horned helmet onto his head, his thick orange hair flying wildly from beneath the brim of the battered helm. “I'm here thinkin' I got a friend on the council, and there ye go, letting Kemp o' Targos go and spout the price without even a fight!”