At the age of 16 Drizzt was given to the Weapons Master Zaknafein who was also his father. He would train Drizzt, as he had trained a thousand young dark elves before him, to be a warrior, to be a Killer. How against this one's nature that mantle seemed! Smiles came too easily to Drizzt; the thought of him running a sword through the heart of another living being revolted Zaknafein. That was the way of the drow, a way that Zak had been unable to resist for all of his four centuries of life. Zak marveled at the ease of Drizzt's stance, the way he held the twin scimitars almost as if they were a natural extension of his arms. Drizzt had been training only a few months, but already he had mastered the use of nearly every weapon in the vast armory of House Do'Urden. Those scimitars! Drizzt's chosen weapons, with curving blades that enhanced the dizzying flow of the young fighter's sweeping battle style.With those scimitars in hand, this young drow, barely more than a child, could outfight half the members of the Academy, and a shiver tingled through Zak's spine when he pondered just how magnificent Drizzt would become after years of training. It was not just the physical abilities and potential of Drizzt that made Zak pause and take note. Zak had come to realize that his temperment was indeed different from the average drow. Drizzt possessed a spirit of innocence and lacked any maliciousness. Zak could't help but feel proud when he looked upon Drizzt. In all manners, the young drow held the same principles-morals sou unusual in Menopberranzan-as Zak. Drizzt had recognized the connection as well. Zak was the first drow Drizzt had ever heard laugh.