Legend's Mist - Because there were so little stories about Guenhwyvar, I decided to add my own. My first actual fanfiction, but I don't mind flaming.

No, I don't own any characters of the Forgotten Realm.

The panther sat on the ground, swaying gently in the morning breeze. Guenhwyvar sighed, her eyes scanning the battlefield that lay around her. No more did the soldiers shout out their war cries, no more did the echo of steel ring in her ears. She looked up at the gray sky, empty of stars, knowing dawn was soon to come.

The grass around her, once bright with the green of spring, was metallic in the darkness, a shade of shinning liquid. Her coat shined with the same liquid, but most was matted dry, giving her the look of weariness usually only found in mortals. The eyes of the hunter, eyes with wisdom of a hundred thousand years, looked downward, to the drow that was once her master.

She glanced at the onyx statue still clutched in his hand, and almost wished to return, to recover from the wounds of the battle, though some too deep, and would probably never heal. The physical blade seemed so weak compared to that of emotions. Laying her tired head down on the cold body of the drow, she half hoped it would move in shallow breezing, but no. There was naught but the shell, now, the soul released to a place beyond, where Guenhwyvar would never be able to reach. For she was immortal, a creature of magic, and not of the world of the object which summons her.

Many a master she had been under, but few deserved her memory. There were many who only saw her as a tool, a creature without emotion, an . . . animal. But then there were others, who saw intelligence and understanding inside that body of a killing machine. Never had she met anyone that would match the drow, whether it be blade or heart. A warrior honor bound, from a place where honor was bound hand and foot, and thrown off a cliff.

Drizzt Do'Urden, the only mortal she knew, that had defied death, nature, reason, all at once. An impossibility against history, for who would have imagined a drow pure of heart? No one sane would have accepted it without experiencing it with their own eyes. The panther shivered, comparing the warrior with her former master, a drow true to his heritage, unlike Drizzt.

Guenhwyvar felt the warmth of the newly risen dawn. A dawn that would not be watched by the drow ranger, for once. She could not see beauty in it, this time, for the colours echoed the battleground. The brightest reds of the spilled blood, with blue and purple, wounds deep below the skin, bruises from the rocks of fate. And still, grey of the wings of ravens and crows, feasting upon the forgotten shells of flesh.

Suddenly wet liquid from her eyes trailed down her face. Tears? But panthers did not, could not cry. Could she? Guen shook her head. If she showing the emotion of sorrow, she did not weep for her master, who died a warrior's death. No, she cried for the world, who would know the ranger no longer. For those who would never seen past the colour of skin, for those who have never met him in person. For a chance lost forever.