A Mostly Excellent Adventure- Chapter 2
Feb. 19th, 2010 04:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
oroburos69Title: A Mostly Excellent Adventure, Chapter 2
Beta:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lady_of_scarlet
Fandom: Forgotten Realms
Summary: Jarlaxle and Artemis wander through a life devoid of purpose, aim, or goals. It's not half bad, really.
Rating: PG-13
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Entreri watched idly as Jarlaxle changed his mud soaked clothes for clean ones he pulled from yet another bag of holding. The clothes were quickly growing damp in the misty rain, but were still immeasurably better than the swamp tainted ones they’d worn for the last week. The hat was waiting on a thorough scrubbing, drooping sadly under the greenish layer of swamp scum that had mysteriously attacked it earlier. The drow put his dirty clothes next to Entreri’s in the nearby stream and dropped a rock on them. They’d leave them in overnight to get the swamp smell out. It was their preferred method of doing laundry.
Jarlaxle settled beside Entreri and curled up into his oversized rain cloak. There wasn’t enough rain for it to truly be necessary, but seven days in a swamp lowered Jarlaxle’s tolerance for being wet.
The pitifully small fire sputtered weakly in the mist, smoking madly. Every once in a while a dribble of fat would slide from the roasting skewers of dragon heart and bear steak, sending a spitting burst of flame into the mist from which it would meekly retreat.
“So…” Jarlaxle said slowly, watching the flames.
Entreri waited patiently for Jarlaxle to gather his thoughts. In the mean time, he turned the skewers so they would cook evenly.
“What exciting thing would you like to happen?” he asked, referencing an almost forgotten conversation from days ago.
Entreri considered carefully. Jarlaxle was frighteningly literal when fulfilling a request. And when he wasn’t, fate was. “Perhaps,” he pulled the skewers off the fire and handed one to Jarlaxle, “Something we haven’t done before.” He blew on his meat-on-a-stick and gnawed off a slice of bear.
“It’ll have to be something heroic,” Jarlaxle considered, waving his skewer to cool it. “We’ve done everything else, I think.”
“Why heroic?” Entreri asked. “It’s not as if we’ve ever done anything truly appalling, either,” Entreri pointed out, “The worst we’ve done is killing things so that we could take their money.”
“I thought that was supposed to be evil?” Jarlaxle asked, frowning. “Was I mistaken?”
“Our motivation may be greed but our actions would generally be considered good,” Entreri explained, “People don’t care too much about the why. Most of them are peasants, merchants or people who could otherwise benefit from our killing monsters.” He bit off a piece of dragon and chewed thoughtfully. “They figure that they’d never see a dragon’s treasure while it lives, but once we’ve killed the thing and taken its gold, we’ll probably spend most of it in a tavern or some such. Then they’d end up with the hitherto unavailable dragon’s treasure.”
Jarlaxle blinked in surprise. He’d always imagined that killing solely for profit was considered at least somewhat wrong. Then he was struck by another realisation. “Do they have the faintest clue how much money is in a dragon’s lair? Much less how much we’ve taken from everything else over the years?”
“No.” Entreri looked at Jarlaxle and wondered how he couldn’t have figured this out by now. “The average person around here has never even seen a gold coin.”
“But still!” Jarlaxle exclaimed, “If we spent everything we’ve gotten in a tavern we’d be drunk and laid for the next two hundred years!” He paused and considered. “And everyone else in the tavern would be too.”
“It’s not such an unreasonable proposal. You’ve seen those bands of men in cheap armour strutting down to the taverns. Those are the usual types who go out to kill and loot. They come back to their home village after their first big kill and throw their money around and act the fool until that money is gone, then they have to go back out and come back with even more to save face.”
Jarlaxle nibbled on a bit of bear. “They don’t kill dragons, do they?”
“No. They mostly kill goblins, I think,” Entreri responded uncertainly. “Maybe the occasional troll?” He waited for Jarlaxle to respond, but the drow seemed lost in his thoughts. “So, appalling or heroic?” he asked, drawing the conversation back to the original topic.
“What would qualify as truly appalling?” Jarlaxle wondered. “Selling slaves?”
“Depends on where you are,” Entreri answered absently, chewing off a piece of charred bear. They’d never sold slaves before. Primarily because live merchandise was difficult to catch, transport, keep alive and sell with only two people. “Maybe if we were to burn down a village or two and kill all their children.”
“But how would we profit from that?” Jarlaxle asked. “Villages are poor. And killing children would be like, what is the phrase… herding cats?” he waited for Entreri’s nod. “They’d run all over the place and hide and such. There are only two of us.”
“True.” Entreri finished his skewer of meat. “Why don’t you come up with something?” He threw the stick into the fire.
“We could torture some elvish children and leave their corpses on pikes or something.” Jarlaxle suggested. It was classical drow.
“We don’t have enough pikes,” Entreri said, “Do we?”
“And what would be the point?” Jarlaxle frowned, considering the present conundrum, “Profitable evil schemes involving only two people are difficult.”
“Maybe you were right about the heroic thing. We could give all our money to charities,” Entreri teased.
Jarlaxle ran a hand down his belt to ensure that all his bags of holding were there and reached over to stroke his pack. All bags accounted for, he glared at the assassin. “Or we could adopt an orphan or two.”
“We could,” Entreri agreed, “but we would most likely kill them in short order. Alternately, we could open a reform school for drow.”
Jarlaxle laughed. “We could teach them skills like ‘Do’Urden impersonation’ and ‘being Lloth bait.’” He finished off his shish kabob. “Better yet, we could save some town from a horde of orcs and become their patron saints.”
“And, while we’re at it, demand a ruinous tithe from them.” Entreri grinned back at the drow. “We may as well face it. Neither of us is cut out for heroics.”
“Whatever shall we do?” Jarlaxle threw up his hands dramatically.
“Go to Silverymoon. Spread rumours about Do’Urden. We will find something, we always do.”
“What kind of rumours?” Jarlaxle asked, intrigued by the thought.
“I was thinking of telling people that he was a famous singer and dancer in Menzoberranzan. Awkward for him, but easily passed off as a case of mistaken identity for us,” Entreri said casually, tossing an acorn into the fire to hear it crack.
“Or tell the world his true age,” Jarlaxle offered.
“Hmmm?” Entreri looked at the drow. “Is he old?”
“No, he’s actually rather young. About seventy-five, to tell the truth.” Jarlaxle caught Entreri’s doubtful look. “That is around twelve to fifteen in your human years, I believe.”
Entreri blinked, suddenly slightly embarrassed at having stalked a pre-teen drow. “Isn’t he involved with the red-headed woman? Catti-Brie?”
“Yes, she was rather fixated on him,” Jarlaxle said. He sighed pensively. “I suppose I was too old for her.”
*****
The rushing waters of Delimbiyr crashed against its banks and roiled in furious protest where the waters of Unicorns’ Run joined it. The rivers joining created a triangular field of rapids, curtained by a constant mist of white water spraying up over razor sharp rocks. To either side the river ran deep and quick, coursing steadily towards the Sword Coast. The only way across was a sturdy wooden bridge, leading the muddy track across the tail end of Unicorns’ Run and straight onto the main street of Secomber.
The assassin and the drow leaned casually against the railing of the bridge. The guards at the end the bridge shuffled nervously, whispering among themselves. Drow look much the same to a surface dweller, but Jarlaxle couldn’t pass as Drizzt with a haircut in the North, especially after the ballad, Lavender Eyes, became popular three years ago. These days, sometimes Drizzt couldn’t pass as Drizzt.
“We could cross the bridge and walk around the town,” Jarlaxle said.
“Or we could actually enter the town and stay in an inn tonight.” Entreri scraped his boots on the wooden planks, trying to dislodge some of the mud stuck to them. “Sleep somewhere other than in mud, bathe in warm water for once, eat food we didn’t cook, buy some more healing potions if they have them, have a drink, and sleep somewhere other than in mud.”
Jarlaxle paused and watched Artemis for a moment. “You said the sleep in mud part twice,” he eventually commented.
“No, I said that we could sleep somewhere other than in mud twice. It’s an important distinction, as sleeping in mud is not a benefit of staying in an inn, which was the subject of my speech,” Entreri said calmly, as his eyebrow twitch started acting up again.
Jarlaxle decided that they ought to spend the night in town, as Artemis was talking too much. It was a sure fire sign of his aggravation level. A happy Artemis was a quiet one. But first, he decided, Artemis needed to work a little harder so that he would appreciate the victory more. “But that would be cheating,” he said, “The coin wouldn’t like it.”
“To the Nine Hells with the coin,” Entreri cursed, glaring down at the marginally shorter drow. “I am sleeping in an actual room tonight. If you feel the need to follow the arbitrary rules you made up at the cost of your own comfort, I will meet you tomorrow on the west side of town.” Entreri paused a moment to savour the pout on Jarlaxle’s face. “I will also mock your stupidity relentlessly for at least a ten day.” He strode towards the gates, surprising one of the nervous guards into dropping his spear.
Jarlaxle grinned cheerfully. Pushing Artemis was ever so much fun. “But what about sleeping under the stars?” he called out after Artemis. “Or the joys of nature?” He trotted after the assassin; making the other two guards retreat back a step and trip over their comrade’s spear.
Artemis stopped a dozen feet back from the wavering spear tips of the guards. Jarlaxle fell into position beside him, inciting a quivering guard to squeak out, “Stop!”
Jarlaxle stared at them, making the one who dropped his spear shiver. A bird chirped from the side of the bridge, and the guard violently twitched.
“And…?” Jarlaxle asked after a minute of silence. The guards shifted and looked at each other, at a loss. He smiled widely at the guards, as if inviting them in on a joke. Unfortunately for them, there was no joke, merely a drow; which is something like a joke only crueller and generally not all that funny.
A slender half-elf slipped between the guards to stand before Jarlaxle. He frowned at the drow. “I have heard of your kind, drow. They call you the greatest liars, cheats and murderers in all of Faerûn.”
“Why thank you!” said Jarlaxle with a broad smile , “I have heard of your kind as well! They call you the unnatural spawn of a slave and a worthless piece of flesh.” His grin grew large enough to crinkle the outside of his eyes, making Artemis lean back warily.
The half-elf snarled and lunged forward, drawing a dagger in mid flight. The leader of the guards swung his spear, knocking the really very young half-elf out of his leap. “Fool!” the grizzled old human growled, “You can’t be starting fights you can’t win!”
“I could have won,” the half-elf wheezed defensively.
“Aye, perhaps you could of,” the old guard said, drawing an offended look from Jarlaxle, “But chances are much better that you would have died. Which would be worse than simply having been insulted.” The guard cast a hard look at Jarlaxle.
“It looses something in the translation, I’ll admit,” Jarlaxle said, “But, in my defence, those were some awfully mean things he said about my race.” He ignored the fact that he’d insulted humans, elves, and half-elves all in the same sentence.
The older guard glared at the drow. “As you will, drow.”
“So, you going to let me in?” Jarlaxle asked, tilting his hat back. “The sun is ever so bright and we’d really like to get out of it for a while.”
The guards looked up at the overcast sky. There weren’t any storm clouds, but it certainly wasn’t sunny.
“Liar!” the elf shouted.
“Useless spawn of diseased slime!” Jarlaxle shouted back, lips curling into a broad smile that bared the unusually pointy incisors common to drow.
Entreri sighed and decided that it was time for damage control. He stepped up beside the drow and murmured, just loud enough for Jarlaxle to hear, “My turn,” he paused. “And sunny? Weak.”
Jarlaxle frowned in false confusion. “But… Sun!” he pointed at a bright patch of cloud. He pasted an innocent expression on his face.
Entreri sighed again and shook his head. “Still, it is not sunny.” He gave Jarlaxle a sad look. “Gentlemen,” his voice turned warm with amusement, caring, and strained patience. “I apologize for Jarlaxle. He is still learning the subtle nuances of surface behaviour. He is a part of a new initiative by the church of Ilmater, Rehabilitation and Aid for Young Offenders From Lewd, Insane, Godless and Heathen Territories. RAY OF LIGHT for short. Jarlaxle is still very new to the surface, so your patience is much appreciated.” Entreri smiled wearily at the guards, secretly rejoicing in their confusion.
Jarlaxle pouted like a child, “I had it handled! I know what to do, why do you keep interrupting me?” he whined.
“Because you have not convinced them that you are harmless and should be allowed inside their village. You may have convinced them that you are violent and possibly insane, but that was not the point of the exercise.”
“I was trying to avoid a fight! They were going to attack just like those dumb elves last month.”
Entreri pinched the bridge of his nose, using his hand to cover his grin. “Jarlaxle…” his voice trailed off in warning.
“Fine!” Jarlaxle shouted in true teenager fashion. “You’re welcome,” he grudgingly said to the guards.
Entreri whispered loud enough for the guards to hear, “The correct response is ‘I’m sorry,’ Jarlaxle.”
Jarlaxle flushed a barely visible purple. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“Jarlaxle is a bit weak with some of the social niceties,” Entreri added gravely, “especially the ones that have no equivalent in the language of the drow.” He looked at Jarlaxle with deeply faked sympathy.
*******
“I can’t believe that worked,” Entreri mused as he ran a fine grit grindstone over Charon’s Claw. At the end of each stroke the blade trembled, catching the candle light in the silver etchings that trailed down the black blade. Entreri ignored the soft little happy noises it made, determinedly not acknowledging that Charon’s Claw really liked being rubbed right up near the hilt.
“What worked?” Jarlaxle asked, looking up from his hat. The copper coin band needed cleaning. He glanced over Artemis then hurriedly returned to polishing the tarnish away. Watching Artemis sharpen Charon’s Claw down was, frankly, a disturbing sight. The blade was just a trifle too intelligent for Jarlaxle’s liking. Magical items should be stupid and pretty, that’s what Jarlaxle had always said.
“Our ploy to get into the town,” Entreri clarified, looking up at Jarlaxle. His eyebrow twitched, gaze flinching away from the sight of the hat. Not for the first time, he wondered if Jarlaxle was colorblind.
“It wasn’t much of a ploy, really,” Jarlaxle said, dipping his rag into a pot of silver polish. “more a ruse, or perhaps even a gambit. It lacked the planning needed to call it a ploy.”
“You’re probably right,” Entreri acknowledged, “It did lack a certain something. Strange that they bought it, though.” He put away the stone and pulled a pot of soft salamander wax and old piece of leather from his bag. Charon’s Claw didn’t need the rust or fire protection, but it appreciated the effort. It didn’t even really need to be sharpened. The souls it ate kept its edges razor-sharp and nick free. They were the ultimate diet food for the evil sword on the go.
“Are you complaining?” Jarlaxle asked, raising a fine white eyebrow. He gestured at the cozy room they had secured. “After all, we did pick up a few healing potions, wash with warm water, eat food we didn’t make, and we’ll be able to sleep away from the mud tonight.” Rain lashed against the wooden shutters, wind leaking through the cracks to tease the candle’s flame. “And the rain,” he added, leaning over to grab his mug of warm cider, the only drink being served at the bar tonight. He took a sip, savouring the flavour.
“No,” Entreri admitted, wondering why he’d begun the conversation in the first place. Charon’s Claw gasped softly, audible only to him, and he was reminded. He was distracting himself from his sword. “It could certainly be worse,” Entreri paused, wondering how to continue the conversation. He wasn’t very good at small talk. “You spoken to Kimmurial recently?”
“Ah… no.” Jarlaxle looked up from his work, startled at the question. Artemis usually didn’t start conversations, especially not twice in one night. And he and Kimmurial had never liked each other.
Light glinted off the hilt of Charon’s Claw, the gleaming skeletons looking somehow relaxed and in something of a post-coitus haze. Jarlaxle sighed. “You know, you should really just get a new sword. The glove will still work.”
“The sword works fine,” Entreri rationalized, “There’s no reason to replace it.” He twitched as the sword purred in appreciation.
“Except that it’s an inanimate object that likes you way too much,” Jarlaxle told Artemis. He paused, then continued thoughtfully, “I think it has a crush on you. You spoil it too much,” he scolded, gesturing at the polish.
“It does not,” Entreri said, ignoring the skeleton hand that had curled tenderly around his thumb.
“Of course it doesn’t,” Jarlaxle mumbled, rolling his eyes.
“And if you don’t take care of your tools, they’ll break,” Entreri said defensively.
“It’s a magical sword that eats the souls of those who touch it. Taking care of it means feeding it every couple of months, not polishing it with fire proofing wax that runs for fifty gold an ounce.” Jarlaxle sighed and put down his rag, done for the night. The coins weren’t exactly gleaming, but they weren’t green anymore either. Maybe he should contact Kimmurial for a new one. Black and white stripe, perhaps. Jarlaxle tossed the hat onto the bed post.
“The next dragon could be a red,” Entreri pointed out, sheathing Charon’s Claw and putting it to the side with a sigh of relief. His dagger could wait until tomorrow.
“I doubt that would really be an issue,” Jarlaxle said, pulling off his boots. “It hasn’t been affected by acid, ice, or lightening. And if the sword were to get hit, you would probably be dead from being on fire.”
“True enough,” Entreri acknowledged easily, now that the sword was put away. “Do we have any possible replacements right now?” He took off his boots too and put them next to his dagger in his, ‘to be cleaned,’ pile. He settled onto the bed next to Jarlaxle, leaning uncomfortably into a mountain of cheerfully coloured pillows.
“Maybe,” Jarlaxle considered carefully. “I think there was a sword with some serious ice-based powers. And it didn’t feel too sentient. Check in the morning?”
Artemis nodded, staring fixedly at the ceiling. “Next time we enter a town…” he started awkwardly, not entirely certain how to say this.
“Come up with a story that allows us to get separate rooms?” Jarlaxle asked, looking over at the assassin lying in bed with him.
“Yes,” Artemis agreed with relief.
“Oh good, because I didn’t want to say anything…” Jarlaxle trailed off, pulling half a dozen pillows from behind his back and threw them on the ground.
“But this bed is really small?” Artemis finished, glancing over. He shifted back so there was more than half a foot between their faces.
“Yes,” Jarlaxle agreed with relief.
Artemis pulled a cluster of pillows from behind his back and tossed them in front of the bed. Finally able to lie back without being smothered, he relaxed. “Nothing to be done,” he said prosaically, “unless you want to sleep on the ground?”
“No more than you do, I wager,” Jarlaxle replied.
Beta:
lady_of_scarlet Fandom: Forgotten Realms
Summary: Jarlaxle and Artemis wander through a life devoid of purpose, aim, or goals. It's not half bad, really.
Rating: PG-13
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Entreri watched idly as Jarlaxle changed his mud soaked clothes for clean ones he pulled from yet another bag of holding. The clothes were quickly growing damp in the misty rain, but were still immeasurably better than the swamp tainted ones they’d worn for the last week. The hat was waiting on a thorough scrubbing, drooping sadly under the greenish layer of swamp scum that had mysteriously attacked it earlier. The drow put his dirty clothes next to Entreri’s in the nearby stream and dropped a rock on them. They’d leave them in overnight to get the swamp smell out. It was their preferred method of doing laundry.
Jarlaxle settled beside Entreri and curled up into his oversized rain cloak. There wasn’t enough rain for it to truly be necessary, but seven days in a swamp lowered Jarlaxle’s tolerance for being wet.
The pitifully small fire sputtered weakly in the mist, smoking madly. Every once in a while a dribble of fat would slide from the roasting skewers of dragon heart and bear steak, sending a spitting burst of flame into the mist from which it would meekly retreat.
“So…” Jarlaxle said slowly, watching the flames.
Entreri waited patiently for Jarlaxle to gather his thoughts. In the mean time, he turned the skewers so they would cook evenly.
“What exciting thing would you like to happen?” he asked, referencing an almost forgotten conversation from days ago.
Entreri considered carefully. Jarlaxle was frighteningly literal when fulfilling a request. And when he wasn’t, fate was. “Perhaps,” he pulled the skewers off the fire and handed one to Jarlaxle, “Something we haven’t done before.” He blew on his meat-on-a-stick and gnawed off a slice of bear.
“It’ll have to be something heroic,” Jarlaxle considered, waving his skewer to cool it. “We’ve done everything else, I think.”
“Why heroic?” Entreri asked. “It’s not as if we’ve ever done anything truly appalling, either,” Entreri pointed out, “The worst we’ve done is killing things so that we could take their money.”
“I thought that was supposed to be evil?” Jarlaxle asked, frowning. “Was I mistaken?”
“Our motivation may be greed but our actions would generally be considered good,” Entreri explained, “People don’t care too much about the why. Most of them are peasants, merchants or people who could otherwise benefit from our killing monsters.” He bit off a piece of dragon and chewed thoughtfully. “They figure that they’d never see a dragon’s treasure while it lives, but once we’ve killed the thing and taken its gold, we’ll probably spend most of it in a tavern or some such. Then they’d end up with the hitherto unavailable dragon’s treasure.”
Jarlaxle blinked in surprise. He’d always imagined that killing solely for profit was considered at least somewhat wrong. Then he was struck by another realisation. “Do they have the faintest clue how much money is in a dragon’s lair? Much less how much we’ve taken from everything else over the years?”
“No.” Entreri looked at Jarlaxle and wondered how he couldn’t have figured this out by now. “The average person around here has never even seen a gold coin.”
“But still!” Jarlaxle exclaimed, “If we spent everything we’ve gotten in a tavern we’d be drunk and laid for the next two hundred years!” He paused and considered. “And everyone else in the tavern would be too.”
“It’s not such an unreasonable proposal. You’ve seen those bands of men in cheap armour strutting down to the taverns. Those are the usual types who go out to kill and loot. They come back to their home village after their first big kill and throw their money around and act the fool until that money is gone, then they have to go back out and come back with even more to save face.”
Jarlaxle nibbled on a bit of bear. “They don’t kill dragons, do they?”
“No. They mostly kill goblins, I think,” Entreri responded uncertainly. “Maybe the occasional troll?” He waited for Jarlaxle to respond, but the drow seemed lost in his thoughts. “So, appalling or heroic?” he asked, drawing the conversation back to the original topic.
“What would qualify as truly appalling?” Jarlaxle wondered. “Selling slaves?”
“Depends on where you are,” Entreri answered absently, chewing off a piece of charred bear. They’d never sold slaves before. Primarily because live merchandise was difficult to catch, transport, keep alive and sell with only two people. “Maybe if we were to burn down a village or two and kill all their children.”
“But how would we profit from that?” Jarlaxle asked. “Villages are poor. And killing children would be like, what is the phrase… herding cats?” he waited for Entreri’s nod. “They’d run all over the place and hide and such. There are only two of us.”
“True.” Entreri finished his skewer of meat. “Why don’t you come up with something?” He threw the stick into the fire.
“We could torture some elvish children and leave their corpses on pikes or something.” Jarlaxle suggested. It was classical drow.
“We don’t have enough pikes,” Entreri said, “Do we?”
“And what would be the point?” Jarlaxle frowned, considering the present conundrum, “Profitable evil schemes involving only two people are difficult.”
“Maybe you were right about the heroic thing. We could give all our money to charities,” Entreri teased.
Jarlaxle ran a hand down his belt to ensure that all his bags of holding were there and reached over to stroke his pack. All bags accounted for, he glared at the assassin. “Or we could adopt an orphan or two.”
“We could,” Entreri agreed, “but we would most likely kill them in short order. Alternately, we could open a reform school for drow.”
Jarlaxle laughed. “We could teach them skills like ‘Do’Urden impersonation’ and ‘being Lloth bait.’” He finished off his shish kabob. “Better yet, we could save some town from a horde of orcs and become their patron saints.”
“And, while we’re at it, demand a ruinous tithe from them.” Entreri grinned back at the drow. “We may as well face it. Neither of us is cut out for heroics.”
“Whatever shall we do?” Jarlaxle threw up his hands dramatically.
“Go to Silverymoon. Spread rumours about Do’Urden. We will find something, we always do.”
“What kind of rumours?” Jarlaxle asked, intrigued by the thought.
“I was thinking of telling people that he was a famous singer and dancer in Menzoberranzan. Awkward for him, but easily passed off as a case of mistaken identity for us,” Entreri said casually, tossing an acorn into the fire to hear it crack.
“Or tell the world his true age,” Jarlaxle offered.
“Hmmm?” Entreri looked at the drow. “Is he old?”
“No, he’s actually rather young. About seventy-five, to tell the truth.” Jarlaxle caught Entreri’s doubtful look. “That is around twelve to fifteen in your human years, I believe.”
Entreri blinked, suddenly slightly embarrassed at having stalked a pre-teen drow. “Isn’t he involved with the red-headed woman? Catti-Brie?”
“Yes, she was rather fixated on him,” Jarlaxle said. He sighed pensively. “I suppose I was too old for her.”
*****
The rushing waters of Delimbiyr crashed against its banks and roiled in furious protest where the waters of Unicorns’ Run joined it. The rivers joining created a triangular field of rapids, curtained by a constant mist of white water spraying up over razor sharp rocks. To either side the river ran deep and quick, coursing steadily towards the Sword Coast. The only way across was a sturdy wooden bridge, leading the muddy track across the tail end of Unicorns’ Run and straight onto the main street of Secomber.
The assassin and the drow leaned casually against the railing of the bridge. The guards at the end the bridge shuffled nervously, whispering among themselves. Drow look much the same to a surface dweller, but Jarlaxle couldn’t pass as Drizzt with a haircut in the North, especially after the ballad, Lavender Eyes, became popular three years ago. These days, sometimes Drizzt couldn’t pass as Drizzt.
“We could cross the bridge and walk around the town,” Jarlaxle said.
“Or we could actually enter the town and stay in an inn tonight.” Entreri scraped his boots on the wooden planks, trying to dislodge some of the mud stuck to them. “Sleep somewhere other than in mud, bathe in warm water for once, eat food we didn’t cook, buy some more healing potions if they have them, have a drink, and sleep somewhere other than in mud.”
Jarlaxle paused and watched Artemis for a moment. “You said the sleep in mud part twice,” he eventually commented.
“No, I said that we could sleep somewhere other than in mud twice. It’s an important distinction, as sleeping in mud is not a benefit of staying in an inn, which was the subject of my speech,” Entreri said calmly, as his eyebrow twitch started acting up again.
Jarlaxle decided that they ought to spend the night in town, as Artemis was talking too much. It was a sure fire sign of his aggravation level. A happy Artemis was a quiet one. But first, he decided, Artemis needed to work a little harder so that he would appreciate the victory more. “But that would be cheating,” he said, “The coin wouldn’t like it.”
“To the Nine Hells with the coin,” Entreri cursed, glaring down at the marginally shorter drow. “I am sleeping in an actual room tonight. If you feel the need to follow the arbitrary rules you made up at the cost of your own comfort, I will meet you tomorrow on the west side of town.” Entreri paused a moment to savour the pout on Jarlaxle’s face. “I will also mock your stupidity relentlessly for at least a ten day.” He strode towards the gates, surprising one of the nervous guards into dropping his spear.
Jarlaxle grinned cheerfully. Pushing Artemis was ever so much fun. “But what about sleeping under the stars?” he called out after Artemis. “Or the joys of nature?” He trotted after the assassin; making the other two guards retreat back a step and trip over their comrade’s spear.
Artemis stopped a dozen feet back from the wavering spear tips of the guards. Jarlaxle fell into position beside him, inciting a quivering guard to squeak out, “Stop!”
Jarlaxle stared at them, making the one who dropped his spear shiver. A bird chirped from the side of the bridge, and the guard violently twitched.
“And…?” Jarlaxle asked after a minute of silence. The guards shifted and looked at each other, at a loss. He smiled widely at the guards, as if inviting them in on a joke. Unfortunately for them, there was no joke, merely a drow; which is something like a joke only crueller and generally not all that funny.
A slender half-elf slipped between the guards to stand before Jarlaxle. He frowned at the drow. “I have heard of your kind, drow. They call you the greatest liars, cheats and murderers in all of Faerûn.”
“Why thank you!” said Jarlaxle with a broad smile , “I have heard of your kind as well! They call you the unnatural spawn of a slave and a worthless piece of flesh.” His grin grew large enough to crinkle the outside of his eyes, making Artemis lean back warily.
The half-elf snarled and lunged forward, drawing a dagger in mid flight. The leader of the guards swung his spear, knocking the really very young half-elf out of his leap. “Fool!” the grizzled old human growled, “You can’t be starting fights you can’t win!”
“I could have won,” the half-elf wheezed defensively.
“Aye, perhaps you could of,” the old guard said, drawing an offended look from Jarlaxle, “But chances are much better that you would have died. Which would be worse than simply having been insulted.” The guard cast a hard look at Jarlaxle.
“It looses something in the translation, I’ll admit,” Jarlaxle said, “But, in my defence, those were some awfully mean things he said about my race.” He ignored the fact that he’d insulted humans, elves, and half-elves all in the same sentence.
The older guard glared at the drow. “As you will, drow.”
“So, you going to let me in?” Jarlaxle asked, tilting his hat back. “The sun is ever so bright and we’d really like to get out of it for a while.”
The guards looked up at the overcast sky. There weren’t any storm clouds, but it certainly wasn’t sunny.
“Liar!” the elf shouted.
“Useless spawn of diseased slime!” Jarlaxle shouted back, lips curling into a broad smile that bared the unusually pointy incisors common to drow.
Entreri sighed and decided that it was time for damage control. He stepped up beside the drow and murmured, just loud enough for Jarlaxle to hear, “My turn,” he paused. “And sunny? Weak.”
Jarlaxle frowned in false confusion. “But… Sun!” he pointed at a bright patch of cloud. He pasted an innocent expression on his face.
Entreri sighed again and shook his head. “Still, it is not sunny.” He gave Jarlaxle a sad look. “Gentlemen,” his voice turned warm with amusement, caring, and strained patience. “I apologize for Jarlaxle. He is still learning the subtle nuances of surface behaviour. He is a part of a new initiative by the church of Ilmater, Rehabilitation and Aid for Young Offenders From Lewd, Insane, Godless and Heathen Territories. RAY OF LIGHT for short. Jarlaxle is still very new to the surface, so your patience is much appreciated.” Entreri smiled wearily at the guards, secretly rejoicing in their confusion.
Jarlaxle pouted like a child, “I had it handled! I know what to do, why do you keep interrupting me?” he whined.
“Because you have not convinced them that you are harmless and should be allowed inside their village. You may have convinced them that you are violent and possibly insane, but that was not the point of the exercise.”
“I was trying to avoid a fight! They were going to attack just like those dumb elves last month.”
Entreri pinched the bridge of his nose, using his hand to cover his grin. “Jarlaxle…” his voice trailed off in warning.
“Fine!” Jarlaxle shouted in true teenager fashion. “You’re welcome,” he grudgingly said to the guards.
Entreri whispered loud enough for the guards to hear, “The correct response is ‘I’m sorry,’ Jarlaxle.”
Jarlaxle flushed a barely visible purple. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“Jarlaxle is a bit weak with some of the social niceties,” Entreri added gravely, “especially the ones that have no equivalent in the language of the drow.” He looked at Jarlaxle with deeply faked sympathy.
*******
“I can’t believe that worked,” Entreri mused as he ran a fine grit grindstone over Charon’s Claw. At the end of each stroke the blade trembled, catching the candle light in the silver etchings that trailed down the black blade. Entreri ignored the soft little happy noises it made, determinedly not acknowledging that Charon’s Claw really liked being rubbed right up near the hilt.
“What worked?” Jarlaxle asked, looking up from his hat. The copper coin band needed cleaning. He glanced over Artemis then hurriedly returned to polishing the tarnish away. Watching Artemis sharpen Charon’s Claw down was, frankly, a disturbing sight. The blade was just a trifle too intelligent for Jarlaxle’s liking. Magical items should be stupid and pretty, that’s what Jarlaxle had always said.
“Our ploy to get into the town,” Entreri clarified, looking up at Jarlaxle. His eyebrow twitched, gaze flinching away from the sight of the hat. Not for the first time, he wondered if Jarlaxle was colorblind.
“It wasn’t much of a ploy, really,” Jarlaxle said, dipping his rag into a pot of silver polish. “more a ruse, or perhaps even a gambit. It lacked the planning needed to call it a ploy.”
“You’re probably right,” Entreri acknowledged, “It did lack a certain something. Strange that they bought it, though.” He put away the stone and pulled a pot of soft salamander wax and old piece of leather from his bag. Charon’s Claw didn’t need the rust or fire protection, but it appreciated the effort. It didn’t even really need to be sharpened. The souls it ate kept its edges razor-sharp and nick free. They were the ultimate diet food for the evil sword on the go.
“Are you complaining?” Jarlaxle asked, raising a fine white eyebrow. He gestured at the cozy room they had secured. “After all, we did pick up a few healing potions, wash with warm water, eat food we didn’t make, and we’ll be able to sleep away from the mud tonight.” Rain lashed against the wooden shutters, wind leaking through the cracks to tease the candle’s flame. “And the rain,” he added, leaning over to grab his mug of warm cider, the only drink being served at the bar tonight. He took a sip, savouring the flavour.
“No,” Entreri admitted, wondering why he’d begun the conversation in the first place. Charon’s Claw gasped softly, audible only to him, and he was reminded. He was distracting himself from his sword. “It could certainly be worse,” Entreri paused, wondering how to continue the conversation. He wasn’t very good at small talk. “You spoken to Kimmurial recently?”
“Ah… no.” Jarlaxle looked up from his work, startled at the question. Artemis usually didn’t start conversations, especially not twice in one night. And he and Kimmurial had never liked each other.
Light glinted off the hilt of Charon’s Claw, the gleaming skeletons looking somehow relaxed and in something of a post-coitus haze. Jarlaxle sighed. “You know, you should really just get a new sword. The glove will still work.”
“The sword works fine,” Entreri rationalized, “There’s no reason to replace it.” He twitched as the sword purred in appreciation.
“Except that it’s an inanimate object that likes you way too much,” Jarlaxle told Artemis. He paused, then continued thoughtfully, “I think it has a crush on you. You spoil it too much,” he scolded, gesturing at the polish.
“It does not,” Entreri said, ignoring the skeleton hand that had curled tenderly around his thumb.
“Of course it doesn’t,” Jarlaxle mumbled, rolling his eyes.
“And if you don’t take care of your tools, they’ll break,” Entreri said defensively.
“It’s a magical sword that eats the souls of those who touch it. Taking care of it means feeding it every couple of months, not polishing it with fire proofing wax that runs for fifty gold an ounce.” Jarlaxle sighed and put down his rag, done for the night. The coins weren’t exactly gleaming, but they weren’t green anymore either. Maybe he should contact Kimmurial for a new one. Black and white stripe, perhaps. Jarlaxle tossed the hat onto the bed post.
“The next dragon could be a red,” Entreri pointed out, sheathing Charon’s Claw and putting it to the side with a sigh of relief. His dagger could wait until tomorrow.
“I doubt that would really be an issue,” Jarlaxle said, pulling off his boots. “It hasn’t been affected by acid, ice, or lightening. And if the sword were to get hit, you would probably be dead from being on fire.”
“True enough,” Entreri acknowledged easily, now that the sword was put away. “Do we have any possible replacements right now?” He took off his boots too and put them next to his dagger in his, ‘to be cleaned,’ pile. He settled onto the bed next to Jarlaxle, leaning uncomfortably into a mountain of cheerfully coloured pillows.
“Maybe,” Jarlaxle considered carefully. “I think there was a sword with some serious ice-based powers. And it didn’t feel too sentient. Check in the morning?”
Artemis nodded, staring fixedly at the ceiling. “Next time we enter a town…” he started awkwardly, not entirely certain how to say this.
“Come up with a story that allows us to get separate rooms?” Jarlaxle asked, looking over at the assassin lying in bed with him.
“Yes,” Artemis agreed with relief.
“Oh good, because I didn’t want to say anything…” Jarlaxle trailed off, pulling half a dozen pillows from behind his back and threw them on the ground.
“But this bed is really small?” Artemis finished, glancing over. He shifted back so there was more than half a foot between their faces.
“Yes,” Jarlaxle agreed with relief.
Artemis pulled a cluster of pillows from behind his back and tossed them in front of the bed. Finally able to lie back without being smothered, he relaxed. “Nothing to be done,” he said prosaically, “unless you want to sleep on the ground?”
“No more than you do, I wager,” Jarlaxle replied.
