Passage to Dawn — R.A. Salvatore

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 alone 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?