Six years. Not so long in the lifespan of a drow. And yet--in counting the months, the weeks, the days, the hours--it seemed to me as if I had been away from Mithril Hall a hundred times that number. The place was another lifetime, another way of life, a mere stepping stone to...

To what? To where?

I ride the waves along the sword coast now, the wind and spray in my face. My ceiling is the rush of clouds and the canopy of stars, my floor, the creaking boards of a swift, well-weathered ship. Beyond that lies the azure blanket, flat and still, heaving and rolling, hissing in the rain and exploding under the fall of a breaching whale.

Is this, then, my home?