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artemis-entreri · 6 years

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"Violets are not blue."

Entreri was frowning, but Jarlaxle knew from his friend's raised eyebrow that the human's ill humor was feigned.

The drow shrugged. "A flawed axiom perhaps, but nonetheless I find it rather endearing."

"You find false equivalencies and failed analogies endearing?" The assassin's thin lips were drawn in a tight line, but amusement danced in his dark eyes. "Has the sharp blade that is Jarlaxle been dulled so much by the passage of time that he finds incompetence amusing?"

The mercenary simply chuckled, the lyrical sound softening the tight line on the assassin's face. It relaxed into a puzzled frown. "Is the butchering of language where this 'hella' comes from too?"

"Hardly 'butchering', my abbil! To my understanding, it is the slang of the parts whence I learned the word."

"Slang, or, in other words, butchering of proper language."

Jarlaxle folded his arms. It was his turn to frown. "Must you always be so contentious?"

Fully into their role reversal, Entreri laughed. "No, but that would take the fun out things for you, would it not?"

The drow conceded with a nod, the frown lasting as long as it ever did on his handsome features.

"I'm impressed that you're capable of drafting," came the assassin's voice from behind the card. "A crude imitation, but sufficiently possessing of your characteristic shamelessness. But why did you go through the trouble of all of this--"

Entreri looked up to find the drow tipping a small ornate box at his face.

"Now what?" the assassin asked as he pushed the box down.

Jarlaxle lifted it again. "It's also for you."

Entreri frowned at the item. "Why? What is it?"

Jarlaxle insistently albeit gently shook it in his friend's face. "Open it and see for yourself."

Entreri backed up a step. "And if I do, will I be sprayed by one of your perfumes?"

The mercenary donned a hurt look. "No, of course not."

"A barrage of flower petals it is then, and judging by the card, roses and violets?"

Jarlaxle turned the box towards himself and pushed open the lid, letting out a small and measured sigh. "Truly, you are always so contentiously cautious."

The assassin chuckled at the ire in his companion's tone. His returning quip, however, was replaced by wonder as his companion turned the box back towards him to present a silk-wrapped object nestled amidst a cushioned interior.

"A magical trinket?" Entreri quirked an eyebrow. "I have no need for such things."

The facade of hurt was back on the mercenary's face. "My abbil, you do wound me so, to believe that after all of our time together, that I'd not know your dislike of magical trinkets!"

Entreri snorted. "Yet you still press them unto me at every opportunity."

"Not so!" Jarlaxle exclaimed. "Why, I assure you right now that this is quite mundane."

The assassin folded his arms. "Quite mundane, yet wrapped in fine silk and resting in an ornate box."

"Mundane as I would allow from a gift from me to be," the drow returned with a wink. "Please, my dear Artemis, some trust in me?"

Entreri looked suspiciously at the box, then at the card in his hand, and sighed with resignation. The use of only one dexterous hand was sufficient to extract the object from its silken shroud, and the assassin procured a curious tubular object. It was almost as dark as his companion's skin, its shape calling to his mind images of the vases that lined Pasha Pook's shelves. Except this "vase" was sealed and rounded on both ends and lacked the fine brushwork that embellished the late Pasha's collections.

The assassin turned the odd object about in his hands. A muffled rattling met his ears.

"An instrument of some sort?" Entreri's gray eyes were stormy with confusion.

Jarlaxle shook his head. "Chocolate!" he proclaimed proudly.

"Chocolate?" the assassin echoed dubiously. The color of the object was darker than even the purest cocoa-based confection that he'd seen. He lifted it to his nose for a whiff, and found that the scent more closely resembled cocoa... if it had been left burning in the fire for many bells.

"A ridiculous card, and now a poor facsimile of chocolate... what's this about, Jarlaxle?"

The drow grandly swept both arms out, the elaborate gesture causing Entreri to groan to himself. He knew immediately that his companion had been waiting for this exact moment to tell his tale. Briefly, the assassin considered dragging a hand down his visage, turning and walking away, even clamping a hand over the mercenary's mouth. In the end however, he simply dropped into a crossed-leg sitting position.

Jarlaxle blinked at the expectant gray gaze staring up at him. The lack of the expected resistance put him at an uncharacteristic loss of words, but only momentarily. Grinning wide, he touched one hand to his chest, the other one performing a flurry to the east, as though it were a bird taking flight.

"I happened upon an exotic traveler--"

The word "exotic" drew an audible groan from Entreri, which only widened Jarlaxle's grin.

"He wore a most magnificent long coat, red as a cardinal's breast, and the thick furs lining his hat and boots suggested that he'd traveled from cold lands afar. I'd never seen any fashions quite like what he donned in the Frozenfar, so I surmised he must've come from elsewhere perhaps even beyond Vaasa!"

The mention of the Cold Lands sharpened the glare fixated on the demonstrative drow dangerously.

However, Jarlaxle, long used to his friend's steel and flint, was hardly affected.

"I do believe he was a priest of some sort--" He thought he felt a blade's edge tickle his skin. "--but the poor fellow was most out of sorts! He continually spoke of a lost signal, and asked me to lend him my fane so that he could contact his fellows."

"You should've taken him to Menzoberranzan," Entreri remarked dryly.

Jarlaxle chuckled. "Nay, it was all I could do to convince him that I had no such thing, he must've been a very devout follower of the gods, for truly it seemed incomprehensible to him that persons without a place of worship might exist He all but insisted that I must have a 'cell fane', which does suggest a rather ascetic devotion to worship!"

"Truly a shame that you didn't introduce him to the Priestesses of Lolth."

"The poor fellow looked as though he was about to break down and cry!"

"And Jarlaxle's heart is so big that he most certainly could not endure the sight of a strange man crying."

"Exactly!" Jarlaxle nodded heartily. "Truly, it would not befit my conscience to leave him so! I gathered that he came from a very idyllic place, fields of green moss upon which plump cows grazed, in a faraway land untainted by greedy nobles and demon lords. I think I would very much like to see such a place one day."

Entreri emphatically cleared his throat. He guided the drow's gaze with his own down at his index finger tapping against his leg.

Jarlaxle took the cue, but his talking speed did not increase.. "I guided him to the nearest town, whereupon I personally secured him a hot meal and a bed for the night. He was loathe to let me go, but I insisted that I must, for I was meeting one whom I so greatly cherished--"

"Which is why you're a day late."

"Desperate to keep me by his side, he regaled me with riveting tales," the mercenary spoke over the assassin as if the human hadn't vocalized at all. "Apparently, he was a scholar, one with a great deal of interest and knowledge of various societies and cultures. He told me about a custom from his land, a major holiday that occurs around this time every year by the name of 'Valiant Time', which apparently entails poetry containing what you described as 'false equivalencies and failed analogies', and the gifting of chocolate."

"I can see why you became so enamored of it." The assassin's finger stopped tapping, his hand lifting to rub his forehead. It fell away after failing to ease the skepticism written in the lines of his angular features. "Let me guess, he then instructed you in making this card, and gave you this chocolate to give to me."

"Exactly so!" Jarlaxle's exclamation caused Entreri's eyes to boggle.

"Why would a man that you'd just met expend so much effort?"

"Why would a man that he'd just met personally escort him to safety, then buy him dinner and a room?"

"Perhaps so that the opportunistic drow would have a bed to share."

Jarlaxle looked hurt again.

"Oh, I'm sorry, was he not attractive enough for you?"

Actual pain crept into the ruby eyes, stabbing the assassin's heart with a pang of guilt. It deepened when he happened to catch sight of the card out of the corners of his eyes.

"My thanks," Entreri gruffly mumbled and bit into the tubular object. The mouthful fell to pieces easily enough between his teeth, and although he waited, rolling each bit around his tongue, he found no trace of sweetness or even bitterness. Rather, the whole thing tasted quite bland whilst filling his nostrils with the scent of burning. Unwittingly, a memory came to him, of sitting by a campfire in the Shadowfell. The rations he had tasted of char and dust, a flavor not unlike what was currently in his mouth.

Overall, it was an unpleasant sensation that elicited unpleasant memories. The one positive that came from it, the assassin noted, was that his companion's expression lighted up again.

Entreri turned the "chocolate" about in his hands. He ran his sensitive fingertips along its surface, trying to find some semblance of a familiar silky texture or equally familiar but different coarse texture. The item's surface was more akin to the latter, but rather than the roughness of a cocoa mixture, it felt more like grains of sand. He sniffed it again. It didn't smell bad, but it didn't carry the indulgent richness or sweetness that he'd come to enjoy. Rather, it smelled like charcoal.

"Is it not good?" The drow's cheery expression began falling into dejected concern. Entreri forced himself to swallow and tried to smile, but instead all he could do was grimace. "It isn't the best I've had," he admitted.

Jarlaxle plopped down before him and tilted his head. Entreri lowered his head to wipe his tongue on his sleeve, but in doing so, caught sight of the card again. Jaw setting with resolution, he bit off another piece of the terrible confection.

"Is it any better?" The drow's posture was a feline ready to pounce. Entreri forced himself to chew, grinding the pieces between his tongue and the roof of his mouth in an attempt to dissolve them. All that he'd succeeded in doing was coating his teeth in particles, a sensation not unlike having sand in his mouth.

"I feel like I'm eating something from a potter's kiln," Entreri finally relented. Nonetheless, he stubbornly swallowed his mouthful.

The mercenary held out a hand, into which the assassin placed the hollow cylindrical object. It was missing most of a formerly sealed end, which the assassin had eaten. Both white eyebrows knitted together as Jarlaxle squinted into the darkness of the tube.

"Wait, there's something inside..."

Entreri remembered the rattling he'd heard as two lithe fingers reached into the tube extracted flat object. Both companions leaned in close to see.

"A horse?" The two voices pronounced in unison.

Jarlaxle didn't resist as Entreri took the small image from him. "Is this another custom of this 'Valiant Times' holiday?" the assassin asked quizzically.

The drow's gaze was distant. The perplexed human waved a hand before the ruby eyes.

"I don't recall anything about a horse..." Jarlaxle's voice was uncertain.

"Why would he give it to you without telling you about what was inside?"

The drow didn't immediately answer. In that short pause, Entreri imagined that he could hear the gears spinning in his companion's head. Before any formulations had a chance to solidify, a swarthy hand shot out and held fast to one slender ebony wrist. Jarlaxle's smile faltered.

Entreri brandished the "chocolate" at Jarlaxle in the same manner that he'd brandish his jeweled dagger. "What did he say about this?" each of the assassin's words were punctuated with threat.

"Ah..." Jarlaxle stammered. Entreri's frigid gaze chilled him.

"He... didn't"

"He didn't?!"

Jarlaxle patted the air with his one free hand. "Peace, my abbil, I beg--"

"What do you mean, he didn't? You said that he gave you this to give to me, was that false?"

Jarlaxle didn't respond. Entreri's face darkened, and he pulled away from his companion. Understanding immediately, Jarlaxle exclaimed, "NO! No, worry not dear Artemis, I would never allow any harm to come to you. I've expended three charges of my Wand of Purify Food and Drink upon this, when one charge would've been sufficient. I can assure you with full confidence that it won't hurt you."

The assassin continued to glare at the mercenary.

"Fine, if you won't believe me--" Jarlaxle reached for the tube. Entreri pulled it out of his reach. The drow blinked with surprise and looked up at the human, relieved to find that his companion’s dark eyes were clearer despite the severe expression that still lingered on his face.

"I would not just feed you anything, my abbil," the mercenary dared.

"Yet, you'd still lie to me about the nature of that which you fed me."

Jarlaxle sighed and nodded.

"So he did not wish to give this to me?"

The drow shook his head. "He did not wish it to give it at all, or rather, he isn't aware that he'd given it."

Comprehension dawned on the assassin. "You took the opportunity to relieve the man of his possessions."

"Artemis Entreri disapproves of opportunistic acquisitions?" "Artemis Entreri disapproves of feeding opportunistic acquisitions that have not been properly identified to him," the chagrined human snapped back.

Jarlaxle's shoulders fell. "I believed I knew what it was. We spoke of Valiant Times until long past the sun dipped beneath the horizon. His accent was quite difficult to follow, why, at times I doubted he was even speaking Common--"

"You have a trinket that allows you to understand any language."

"And I was using it! But he must've possessed magic of his own, countering magic, perhaps a reward from his god to a loyal servant!" Jarlaxle sighed again. "Alas, that divine magic did not protect his sobriety."

"And no deity can protect Jarlaxle's sanity when he becomes too enamored with an idea."

Jarlaxle conceded with a sad nod.

Entreri's attention returned to the object in his palms. "Have you tried using identification magic on it?"

The drow held up both hands helplessly. "Such magic only serves to unravel the mystery of an unknown enchantment, or reveal the nature of the enchantment upon an item. All that my investigations told me was that this item is very much not enchanted."

The assassin looked up with a quirked eyebrow. "So you did investigate it?"

Jarlaxle's arms folded again. "Of course."

Entreri chuckled at the crossness in his companion's tone. "What led you to believe that it's chocolate? he asked, much of the steel gone from his tone.

Jarlaxle shrugged. "It was the only logical conclusion."

Entreri waved for the drow to continue.

"As I've told you, my abbil, we spoke at great length about the nature of the holiday. It is customary during this holiday to bear gifts of the finest chocolates, enclosed within elaborate containers. When I saw this box, I knew it immediately to be one such container, and my suspicion was confirmed when I glanced inside--"

"Glanced inside?" Entreri stopped Jarlaxle.

Jarlaxle nodded.

"It could've just as easily been a blade, a gem, or a piece of jewelry, wrapped within the silk. Why would you believe that it was chocolate?"

Jarlaxle brought one hand to rub the back of his neck.

Entreri let out an exasperated sigh and shook his head. "Are you always in the habit of opening the gifts that you intend for others?"

Jarlaxle began to respond, but a sudden noise froze both companions. Another noise spurred them to their feet, one blade in each of the assassin's hands and a throwing dagger poised to fly between the mercenary's fingertips. The two waited in total silence for countless heartbeats when, finally, they were rewarded with a sight that hardly justified their preparedness. Out from the nearby brush stumbled a disoriented human, messy light brown hair matching rumpled and mud-splattered clothing. His eyes brightened upon seeing the two figures, but then immediately, they widened, and so, too, did his mouth.

"YOU!!!" the disheveled man pointed at Jarlaxle as he howled and charged.

Entreri began to move forward, but the bedraggled man didn't take half a score of steps before falling flat onto his face.

The assassin and the mercenary stood still for many more breaths, waiting for the strange man to right himself. Instead of moving however, muffled sobs rang out from his still form. Entreri looked quizzically at Jarlaxle, and saw embarrassment in the deep red eyes that gazed back at him.

"He seems to have business with you," Entreri stated.

"Perhaps." Jarlaxle made no move to approach the prone man.

The assassin studied the mercenary quietly, all the while Jarlaxle was staring at the sobbing form, discomfort in his expression. The faintest twitch caught Entreri's keen gaze, and he looked down to see the drow surreptitiously move the image of the horse behind his back.

"Let us be away then," Entreri casually suggested.

Jarlaxle roused immediately and beamed. "A splendid idea!" he declared, wheeling on one heel while throwing the other leg out before him, his arms beginning to swing in pace--

But the assassin wasn't beside him. Gone, too was the small horse image in his fingers.

"Artemis?" Jarlaxle managed, his heart sinking as low as it could go when he saw that the assassin was already at the sobbing man's side. He watched, dumbfounded, as Entreri knelt and with uncharacteristic gentleness, then coaxed the distraught man up to his knees.

Even his keen elven ears couldn't discern the words that they exchanged, and he knew that such was the assassin's intention. No small measure of him willed him to turn and bolt away, especially when he saw the barely perceptible tensing of Entreri's shoulders, and knew immediately that the assassin had found the truth. However the dread that fixed him to the spot increased evermore in weight as he watched his friend hand the dirt-covered man the small portrait, then even pat the stranger on the shoulder.

"What is your business with him?" Entreri asked, pointing a thumb over his shoulder back at Jarlaxle.

"Mishka! He stole my Mishka!" wailed the stranger, in an accent quite unlike any that Entreri had heard before. However, "Mishka", which he assumed was a name, did remind him of some of what he'd heard people call one another during his time in Damara.

"What is a Mishka?" Entreri asked, his forehead wrinkled in confusion.

"Mishka is my horse!" the stranger's words were barely comprehensible, especially delivered in between gasps and sobs as they were.

"Not likely. He possesses a steed unlike any, he would have no reason to steal a mundane horse."

"Mishka was my horse," the oddly-dressed man managed to choke out. "I grew up with her, but she died recently."

"He stole your dead horse?" The wrinkles in the assassin's forehead deepened.

The disheveled man began nodding furiously, then shook his head, then nodded again. "After Mishka died, I had her cremated, and her ashes were made into a small memento, so that I could always keep her close by my side."

Entreri had been planning to ask the stranger how he could be certain that Jarlaxle was the thief, but the dawning of a realization, a slow and inexorable one that he wished that he could deny, asserted itself in his mind at the expense of all other thoughts.

"Wait here," the assassin quietly instructed, and the stranger obediently nodded, having mistaken the quiet for gentleness.

Jarlaxle watched with admiration as Entreri smoothly rose, none of his rage evident in his flowing movements. The drow knew that he was smiling, but he also knew how empty his smile was. He imagined that he could see a dense aura of heat around Entreri, as though he still had his infravision before the transformation of magic over time had changed it. Like an unstoppable, slow-motion fireball, Entreri bore towards him, and Jarlaxle could only stand stock-still, stunned by the overbearing pressure.

"Horse ashes," Entreri pronounced in a barely audible whisper.

Jarlaxle could only nod, blank smile still affixed on his face.

"Not chocolate. Horse ashes."

Jarlaxle nodded again.

Entreri procured the "chocolate" that he'd hidden in the folds of his cloak and held it before the mercenary's eyes.

Jarlaxle nodded a third time.

The assassin's arm dropped to his side as his chin dropped against his chest. Jarlaxle stared wordlessly, his face beginning to hurt from his facetious smile. For countless heartbeats, all that passed between them were mild breezes, their gentleness tempered by the bite of winter that yet lingered upon them. Then, Entreri's shoulders began to shake, followed by his arms, then chest.

Jarlaxle brightened. "Truly, it gladdens me that you're able to find the humor--" he began.

The assassin's glare snapped up. Jarlaxle's smile faded completely. The hand that grabbed him by his collar did so so fast that he wasn't even aware of it having moved by the time that he felt his feet kicking in the air.

"Artemis, please--" the mercenary begged, his hands clasping the grip at his throat. "It was an honest mistake!"

Entreri said nothing, instead slamming Jarlaxle against a nearby tree. It wasn't hard enough to knock the breath out of him, but still Jarlaxle gasped, for the assassin came on so quickly that the next thing he knew, his legs were pinned by the human's knee, his torso by his companion's arm. Entreri's breath was hot against his face, the scent of coal only amplifying the sensation of being scalded by fire.

"Artemis? What are you going to do with me?"

"Didn't you say that it's a holiday for sharing?"

Jarlaxle started to answer, but Entreri's glare silenced him.

"In the spirit of Valiant Times, I am doing my part in sharing a new experience with my 'cherished one'." The assassin's tone was like ice.

The black tube drew closer to Jarlaxle's mouth.

The mercenary craned his neck as far as it would go. "Please, Artemis, peace, I beg!"

The tube did not halt its advance.

"Surely you wouldn't make a heartbroken man watch you feed his childhood friend to the bastard whom robbed him!" Jarlaxle managed to croak around the corner of the black substance that'd already wedged itself between his lips.

Thankfully, the item didn't penetrate his mouth any further. Although his vision was entirely occluded by his companion's form, Jarlaxle could hear that the stranger's sobs had become more subdued.

The assassin pulled away from the mercenary. "Come with me," Entreri said, more an order than a request as he headed towards the bedraggled stranger once more. It was the last thing that Jarlaxle wanted to do, but nonetheless, he followed dutifully.

"Good sir, is this what you seek?" Entreri held out the broken tube and the small portrait.

The stranger cried out with a mix of glee and dismay. He snatched the items from the assassin's hands. "What have you done with Mishka?!"

A heavy hand fell on Jarlaxle's shoulder. "Please forgive my clumsy friend, good sir. He can be very single-minded when met with curious items. Not unlike a child in a confectionery shoppe, he simply cannot resist the urge to grab the sweetest treat."

The hand on Jarlaxle's shoulder gave it a firm squeeze. A firm, painful squeeze. The mercenary winced, but took the cue and nodded earnestly. He started to speak, but an icy glare from the assassin froze the words in his throat.

"Fortunately, he is a simpleton with means. He has learned the error of his ways and will expend some of those means now to recompense you for the injury that he has done onto you." Entreri's gaze hardened as he turned it back to Jarlaxle. "Isn't that right, my abbil?"

Jarlaxle kept his wince inwards, instead nodding enthusiastically. "Quite so!" he exclaimed as he drew a wand from one of his many pockets. Perceiving the hesitation in the drow's ruby eyes, Entreri coaxed the broken tube and the small portrait from the unkempt man's hands, placed the portrait within the tube, then held it out beneath Jarlaxle's raised wand.

The mercenary didn't speak the command word. Instead, he whispered in his native tongue words that might've been birdsong to the stranger's ears, "Truly, my trusted friend, you wound me so, to ask that I expend this much."

"Further, as a gesture of goodwill," Entreri continued as though nothing had sounded but actual birdsong, "My generous friend will provide you with sufficient coin to see that you lack for nothing in your journey home." The assassin glared at the mercenary. "Is that not so?"

Jarlaxle's reply was a single word. The item in the assassin's hands was whole again. Entreri noted with displeasure that the charcoal taste in his mouth yet lingered.

"Your Mishka," Entreri stated as he handed the stranger the restored tubular object.

"And your travel expenses," the assassin added, one palm extended at the mercenary. Jarlaxle frowned but obediently placed a bulging coinpurse in Entreri's outstretched hand. The assassin bounced the coinpurse before handing it to the disheveled stranger, then returned his empty palm to Jarlaxle. The drow's frown deepened into a scowl, but again, he wordlessly placed another bulging coinpurse in Entreri's expectant palm. Entreri repeated the assessing motion, handed the purse to the stranger, and just as Jarlaxle readied a rejoinder, Entreri's hand didn't reach for him again.

Instead, thoroughly ignoring the drow, the two humans walked away, Entreri talking to the stranger with a false familiarity that nonetheless made Jarlaxle uncomfortable. He knew better than to try to follow though, the hard set of Entreri's shoulders warned him against it, so it was all he could do to watch the assassin point the strange man towards the nearest town.

When Entreri returned, outstretched in his hand was what appeared to be a small piece of metal.

"What's this?" Jarlaxle couldn't help his curiosity.

"Chocolate."

The drow quirked an eyebrow. "Encased in silver?"

The assassin answered him by peeling away metallic skin that was thinner than parchment to reveal a rich brown bar within.

"For you," Entreri deadpanned.

Jarlaxle's ears drooped. "Please, my abbil, haven't you punished me enough?"

"I am not like you," the assassin retorted. "I know exactly the nature of what it is that I'm offering to you. It is chocolate."

Jarlaxle looked sadly from the offered bar to the assassin's face, then back again.

"If you truly care about me as much as you claim to care, and value my trust as much as you claim that you do, you would at the very least try this." Entreri's voice lacked inflection, as though he were stating an objective fact.

Jarlaxle sighed and begrudgingly accepted the offered item. He squeezed his eyes shut as he bit off a small corner, fully expecting to taste char, soot, and perhaps a hint of meat, but instead..."

The drow's eyes popped open. It was sweet, rich, and creamy. It was actually chocolate! A wide smile broke over his handsome features. "Ah, my abbil, truly you are more noble than I! It was wrong of me to have doubted you. Please, accept my most humble apologies."

The mercenary struck a deep bow, then earnestly ate the rest of the confection. It wasn't a difficult task at all, for it was truly delicious.

The assassin's expression was stern even after the drow had finished the last bite.

"I planned to insist upon your company at a revel I'm to attend tonight," Jarlaxle began hastily, thinking that he had Entreri's dishumor figured out. "However, given what has transpired... I shall spare you what you no doubt consider a nuisance."

A smile broke over the assassin's grimness. Jarlaxle breathed an internal sigh of relief.

"I must be on my way then, my abbil," the mercenary proclaimed as he threw down his Nightmare figurine. "Have a joyous Valiant Times!"

As Entreri watched the drow fade into the distance, he drew out a small blue and white box, which still contained several bars of the "chocolate" that he'd given Jarlaxle to eat.

"Indeed," the assassin whispered with a thin smile to the exquisitely written lettering on the box, pleased that the stranger had told him of both its “explosive” results and its charming name of "Ex Lax".

#Jarlaxle #Jarlaxle Baenre #Artemis Entreri #Entreri #Forgotten Realms #legend of drizzt #fanfiction #Valentine's Day #Valentine's Card #Valentine's Day 2019 #my art

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scratchedagain · 7 years

Text

Little Antics

Artemis, Dahlia and Jarlaxle being goofy.

Dahlia waited until she and Artemis had left the coffee shop before voicing the question that had occurred to her the moment she saw what the human had used to pay for their drinks. She nudged him with her shoulder as they rejoined Jarlaxle by the canal they’d been strolling along all morning.

“Since when do you spend enough to qualify for a Black Card?” The barest ghost of a smirk flickered across Artemis Entreri’s face as he shrugged and sipped at his coffee.

“I don’t.” The assassin nodded in Jarlaxle’s direction. “He does.” The drow looked bemused.

“Enjoy that while you have it. I’ll expect it back eventually.” Judging by the look on his face, Dahlia suspected the drow knew full well he would have to cancel the card altogether if he didn’t wanted Artemis to have it – making the mercenary pay for absolutely everything was the assassin’s favorite form of petty revenge. She looked between them as Artemis ignored the drow to breath in the scent of his coffee. A thought occurred to her then and she started to chuckle. She turned to Jarlaxle.

“Is this how you got him to wear that silly Christmas hat?” Jarlaxle flinched in sudden panic as Artemis’s eyes snapped up with a snarl.

“You showed her that picture?”

Jarlaxle dodged behind Dahlia, who laughed outright. She pulled out her phone, tapped through to her photos and turned the screen to the human. It was an old picture of Jarlaxle and Artemis, the drow’s head capped with an obnoxiously decorated Santa hat at a jaunty angle, arm sprawled across the human’s shoulder and grinning. The assassin wore a similar plain cap of green and an expression that made it clear he’d be tearing it off the second the photo was taken. The man before her snarled again at the sight and squinted around the woman to glare at the drow.

“Who else have you sent that to?”

Jarlaxle was trying very hard not to laugh from his position hunched behind Dahlia, but it was a losing battle and the elf woman had no plans to help him. She half turned to him with a wicked grin. The drow’s eyes widened dramatically. He mouthed a desperate “No!” to her and started trying to smother her mouth with his hands. She danced merrily out of his reach, turning to Artemis as she did so.

“Drizz’t – he sent it to Drizz’t!”

“You traitor!” Jarlaxle hissed at her, eyeing the assassin even as he began to back slowly away. Artemis took a deep breath, stared up at the sky for a moment, and then looked back to Dahlia. He handed her his cup of coffee.

“Hold this, please. I need to beat Jarlaxle.”

“Certainly!” Dahlia took his coffee and stepped out of the way as he immediately lunged at the drow, who squawked and quick-stepped out of his reach. She sipped happily at the assassin’s drink as the two men began to wrestle. Artemis kept trying to grab Jarlaxle’s hat – presumably to throw it in the canal they’d been walking along – but the drow was doing a fine job of avoiding his grabs.

Neither man was making much effort to fully avoid the café tables scattered along their path though, so the elf woman occupied herself with righting the furniture as the men rampaged through the area. She mused on how unlikely it had once been for Artemis to relax enough around either of them to goof off – even in such a rough fashion – and how glad she was for the change.

Still, Dahlia thought, best not to let it run too long. She knew Jarlaxle would eventually say something to set the assassin off and she didn’t particularly feel like dealing with a real fight. Jogging over to the relatively empty area where the two men had escalated to nearly sparring, she wondered if they’d cease their tussle if she simply asked. She opened her mouth to speak, but immediately paused, remembering a conversation she’d had with Jarlaxle the day before. A grin grew on her face. She set hers and the assassin’s drinks on the canal balustrade near the two and pulled her cell out again, setting it to call both of them at once.

She knew her number was one of the very few in Artemis’s phone that wasn’t silenced so he’d likely at least pause once he heard it, and Jarlaxle was near-religious about promptly checking his calls. She suspected the drow would also take the opportunity to scramble fully out of the other man’s reach.

Within a few seconds, both men’s phones rang out and they each started at the noise. Jarlaxle’s she recognized immediately. He’d set custom ringtones for the people he spoke to most and she’d heard hers before – Blank Space by Taylor Swift, a choice she’d decided to find amusing. Artemis always left his phone at the default, which is why he now looked thoroughly confused at what he was hearing. Dahlia giggled behind them, pleased the drow had gone through with the prank they’d discussed.

The assassin pulled his phone out of his pocket, to stare at it as Jarlaxle began cackling in utter glee. He spread his arms wide as if displaying a grand trick when the human looked up to him, incredulous.

“You changed my ringtone?” The drow shrugged through his laughter, finally silencing his own cell and tucking it back into his pocket.

“Well – it seemed appropriate – you do so love coffee.” He walked wide around the assassin’s reach as he spoke, coming over to Dahlia’s side where she was still chuckling.

“The Folger’s Jingle?!” The drow and the elf both laughed hard at that, leaned against each other for support. Artemis frowned down at his cell as it finally fell silent on its own.

“When did you do this?”

“This morning while you were in the shower.” Jarlaxle wiped a tear from his eye.

“You broke into my apartment.”

“Well – yes.” The drow looked as if he’d suddenly realized how much trouble he might be in, but to Dahlia’s eye the assassin still seemed more nonplussed than angry. Jarlaxle, having only just recently been welcomed back into the human’s presence, was apparently unwilling to risk it and pointed at Dahlia.

“It was her idea.” She tasked at him, shoving at his shoulder.

“All’s fair, my dear.” Jarlaxle wagged a finger at her. The elf grinned and laughed, but made no move to deny it as she stored her cell, picked up the forgotten drinks and handed Artemis his own. She was unconcerned at the potential for retaliation from the human – she knew it would come eventually, but was fully prepared to return the favor and begin the cycle anew. She chuckled at the light frown Artemis had turned on her. It turned into an outright glare as he discovered his cup was now empty. He cocked his head at Dahlia, who sipped from her own and winked at him over the rim.

“Thanks for the coffee.”

#sellswords #Forgotten Realms #Artemis Entreri #dahlia sin'felle #jarlaxle baenre #silliness

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complementme · 6 years

Text

The Art of Negotiation

She’s sitting on the wooden floor, legs straight out in front of her but crossed at the ankles, hands demurely folded in her lap. In front of her sits one of her former flames, holding her in this extra-dimensional space for her open defiance of his plan. Her plan, should she be able to pull it off, is to stall him long enough for her comrades to handle the business with the artifact he is desperately after. They don’t need to do anything but hand it to someone else, that’s all she needs them to do so he will turn away from them and bother someone else.

“It’s so lonely to be just the two of us, isn’t it Folys?” he asks, golden eyes stern. With a snap of his fingers, two Drow enter the room.

Her plan had been foolproof, until her lover was thrown down beside her and it became a hostage situation.

“Nell!” It’s an admission that she immediately knows is a mistake. Wylym, her former flame – true name Jarlaxle – has her and he knows it. She’s the type to try and save everyone that she can, and putting someone so important down next to her was making his life easier. Her eyes return to him, fearful but hardened. She doesn’t like the situation he’s created, and she doesn’t know how to fix it without giving in to his demand. She instinctively grabs for her left shoulder blade, brushing her fingertips over where her tribute tattoo to her father resided. Only two people in Waterdeep even knew she had additional tattoos outside of her familial markings, and they both happened to be in the room. She had promised to tell Nell what the intricate sword with flame inlay meant later, not wanting to interrupt their tryst with a somewhat sad story. But there might not be a later if Jarlaxle had anything to say about it.

“In the end, we are all just people who want something. I want to openly lead the city of Luskan as part of the Lord’s Alliance. I am tired of watching the people of my city suffer without support. I am tired of the image that the Drow still have on the surface world. You want Keegan McFadden gone. You want your lover returned to you safely. You want to run your tavern in peace. These are all things I can give to you, that I want to give to you. Please choose your lover, not some new-found commitment to the status quo and the corruption that exists within Waterdeep.”

She refocuses her hardened expression on the seated man, teal eyes burning with the emotions she can’t yet give name to. She’s never been in a hostage situation, let alone the one holding the hostage’s life in her hands. It’s unnerving, and she’s beginning to understand why her father quit the adventuring business. In her head she hears her familiar calling to her, promising to come to her aid. She tells him that everything is fine and he needs to stay with the others. He can act as a messenger between them, and keep their youngest safe. Jarlaxle doesn’t know she has a familiar, he’s the only secret she’s got left.

She looks back to Nell, who is trying to say something around the gag. She can’t make out what’s being said, but she doubts that Jarlaxle is going to let her take off the restraint and ask. She tightens her grip on her shoulder, taking a steadying breath. Her father could talk his way through anything, and though she’s the spitting image of her mother, she is her father’s daughter. She doesn’t know if he would have been conflicted about the situation, however, and for that she’s on her own.

“Please don’t hurt her,” she settles on, meeting his gaze.

“Trust me, Folys, I do not wish to hurt our dear Nell.” He bends over in the chair to stroke the top of Nell’s head much like an owner would to a beloved pet. It’s such a condescending gesture that Folys is simmering just under the surface though she can just tell that he knows exactly what reaction he’s eliciting. Her fingers twitch as she retrains herself from bodily removing Jarlaxle’s hand from Nell’s head. Folys is cursing her patron for not giving her the ability to read minds, because Nell is trying to say something again. “You are both truly so lovely, you should be happy together.” She’s got to keep him talking and get him to stop touching Nell. There’s a fury in her eyes that somehow doesn’t seep into her voice. She wants answers, not to antagonize him further.

“How long have you had her? How long have you been watching me?” It’s the question that’s worrying her most as she sits and thinks on it. He’s been so many people they’ve interacted with, who was to say that he wasn’t the person who set them up on this trajectory from the beginning?

“I happened upon Nell shortly after she visited you this morning at Trollskull Manor,” he states as he sits up. “You caught my attention shortly after your group acquired that manor.” Folys is trying to work out the logistics and is beginning to suspect she is in over her head. He had already demonstrated that he was a master of illusion, he could look like whoever he wanted. It was possible that he had been around since the beginning and she would be none the wiser.

“What good does threatening her here do? The others already agreed.” This was a question she asked out of genuine curiosity, she needed to know why he had resorted to this when he had what he wanted. He had already gotten the others to agree to help, she was the lone holdout. With her in this space, there was nothing she could do to impede their progress.

“I have two reasons for why I’ve kept you here. First, I need to know we’re all on the same team.” He’s smiling congenially at her as he waves his hand. His visage changes from a high-elf noble man to a charcoal-skinned Drow right before her eyes. This is his true form, and it is worlds more intimidating than the other personas she had encountered. “That team includes you. The Yuan-Ti fears for the exposure of his identity. The Bladesingers all cow to me when I push my thumb down, their weakness of character should be quite evident to the both of us. The samurai’s true demons lie with the Xanathar. The half-Drow can be bought with coin and power. But you, you are different, which brings me to my second reason.” He’s smirking at her, and all she can do is return a neutral stare. “I do not think lowly of you, Folys. There is a quality to your blatant defiance of me that I find nearly irresistible.” His wink has her biting her cheek.

“Oh, only nearly irresistible?” she queries, raising an eyebrow.

“Be careful with your charm, my old flame. I’m only flesh and blood. I have instincts.” He leans towards her, red eyes raking over her form suggestively. Folys finds herself both disgusted and flattered.

“How can I be an old flame if it was only one night, and if I look nothing like I did then?” she asks, sounding almost naïve—Jarlaxle probably knows her well enough from watching that he could read through that effortlessly. She was deliberately toeing the line to see what she could get away with, to buy time, to refocus her thoughts.

“You say that as though your beauty could be so easily hidden. It betrays you.” Something in his tone gives her pause, which he takes as an invitation to continue. “Do you have any other questions?” She is curious, of course, as to what he might mean that she specifically caught his interest, but the more pressing issue is the hostage he is currently holding over her. Nell’s safety has to be the first priority, even above her own. She has a small amount of magic still in reserve and her casting isn’t impeded in any way. If she can get Nell out, she can escape on her own power when the time is right.

“Let us form a partnership. Get me the stone, and I can get rid of Keegan McFadden for you, permanently. I know you are angry with me, but I can make very good things happen for you, Luskan, and all of the disenfranchised surface Drow.” He extends a slender, charcoal colored hand. “Please. Agree to this and I will give you Nell.”

Her expression shifts to one she wears often in her line of business—a demure smile with a hint of flirty promises. This is the mask she hides behind to compose herself when things begin to go south and she has to regain her footing. She must buy time to make sense of everything he’s said so far, to give her companions the time they need to figure out what to do. He seems to prefer her when she’s flirting, so she incorporates that more into her speech.

“For McFadden, well…” There’s a heavy hesitation and her smile falters to show her immense dislike. “I only want him locked up where he can’t hurt anyone anymore.” There’s a strain to her voice as she tries to keep things light, broadcasting her internal conflict. In the deepest part of her heart she knows she wants McFadden buried, but she had made a deal with her patron and the celestial powers-that-be to better the world and promote goodness. Killing McFadden would better the world (probably), but it wasn’t the right way to do it when he could be rehabilitated and serve out his sentence.

“A boorish brute such as that deserves worse, but I will respect your wishes, Folys, to not have him killed off. Provided we reach an agreement, Seronis Talwynd shall take good care of him.” He looks put off by the idea that she is requesting mercy, but she takes her opportunity to push for more.

“If I get you the stone, I want a guarantee of safety for Nell and the others.” She’s looking him in the eyes, showing him that she’s seriously considering it. He’s got such an intense focus on her that she feels she might be melting under his gaze. “That you and yours will not do anything to harm them.” She’d nearly run out of healing magic, so she had to ensure that neither herself nor Nell would be injured as she continued to make her demands. She takes a breath and sends a sad smile to Nell. She doesn’t want to buckle, but she’s out of options. If Nell wanted to avoid her after this, that was fine. She understood.

“And I want Nell to walk out of her first, on her own power. Untie her and let her go.” Her gaze returns to Jarlaxle, defiant but defeated. She knows she’s lost, and to prevent unnecessary bloodshed she has to agree. “These are my terms: Jail McFadden. Release Nell. Safety for Nell, myself, Tommi, and the others. You don’t tell anyone who got you the stupid stone. And you don’t interfere with my life, or anyone connected with me, ever again.” Her fists are clenched in her lap, nails biting into her palms. She has one more demand, but she doesn’t know if it will land. “Finally, I want a promise that you will not kill anyone else to get a seat with the Alliance. You wouldn’t want to lie to me again, would you?” She flashes him a winning smile, not offering her hand.

“Your last request is one I cannot meet,” he says flatly, retracting his hand. She’s crossed a line, she can see his expression darkening, but she maintains her smile as if he wasn’t a rapidly darkening stormcloud. “The road to politics and power is paved with blood and intrigue. I do not enjoy killing and consider it a last resort, but I cannot honestly take that last card off the table, you’ll have to forgive me. Everything else is completely reasonable, provided the stone is handed over.”

“Thank you for being so accommodating of my concerns,” Folys tells him, dipping her head in deference. “I should amend my final request, then, to ask that there is no unnecessary murder in your quest.” She’s backpedaling to appease him and is rewarded when his expression softens slightly. It’s not what she would personally want, and she also wasn’t sure where her patron stood on that particular issue, but she was in a bind and was making the best possible choices for the greatest amount of people possible. She looks up at him from under her lashes, biting her lower lip gently. It’s plainly a stall tactic and he’s enjoying the view, but Folys is certain he can see she’s more-or-less on his side. His goals are well-intentioned, and if this is truly the last resort, she can understand his desperation.

“My dear Folys, I loathe killing,” he tells her in an attempt at a reassuring tone. “If your Bladesinger and samurai companions had been dealing with the Xanathar, they would have been slain before they finished their first sentence. You can rest assured that any time I choose to take a life, I have a good reason.”

She isn’t reassured by his words, but he does have a point. He could have easily killed both her nad Nell within moments, but he had stopped to negotiate. Folys begins to stand, showing Jarlaxle her hands as she does. She doesn’t want him to think she’s going to attack, so she moves slowly, bending generously to give him a peek of cleavage. She notices his eyes immediately adjust course, and she’s got a fairly good idea that her stall tactic would have worked provided there wasn’t a hostage. She feels sick to her stomach, but she stands tall as if she has not a care in the world aside from the concern for the hostage’s safety. Her patron would forgive her. They would all forgive her. They would have to, they would hopefully make a similar choice. She hopes. There’s nowhere else to go—her back is to the wall and she’s running on empty.

“Okay.” There’s a defeated finality in the word. She can’t look at Nell, who is no doubt severely disappointed in her choice to partner with Jarlaxle and retrieve the stone. She can’t call to her familiar or her patron, both of whom will surely disown her for this decision. She’s got to handle this herself, like her father who raised her. “Now let her go.”

“As you wish.” He snaps his fingers and his Drow companions get Nell to her feet, untie her, and usher her out the door behind Folys. Nell calls out her name, but the slam of the door behind her cuts off whatever else she had been about to say.

“I must say, I admire your method of committing to a deal,” Jarlaxle drawls, red eyes raking over Foly’s form. She suppresses a shiver—though she isn’t sure if it’s from fear or excitement. “I did not expect to see you again this way, but you are a bouquet of surprises, my dear.” He’s walking in a slow counter-clockwise circle around her, scanning her. As he circles her, scrutinizing, Folys holds her gaze perfectly in front of her, body unmoving. She is used to these looks as well in her line of work, but never when she can’t defend herself. She understands that one hair out of line here and going forwards means that everything she’s bartered for is void. Still, she finds she has her voice, quieter when there’s nobody to impress.

“You could have just sent a letter, I believe that’s how things are typically done. I would have saved you a table.” She would have saved Wylym a table, if only because she knows – knew – he has a good reputation and a wealth of entertaining enough stories. Wylym hadn’t been as intriguing as Nell, nor had he shown as much interest in her history, but he was attractive and he was good with his hands. He would have been fun to have around, if only for the nights when she needed physical release.

He makes his way around to meet her eye-to-eye, expression dark. His scowl is almost as intense as his gaze, and Folys is forced to swallow down her fear.

“This is some game of yours, I am not foolish enough to miss that.” It is the longest three seconds of Folys’ life as all his attention is focused solely on her. The tightness in his lips gives way to a licentious smirk. “But I am foolish enough to play along. You have earned your title as entirely irresistible, my cunning little minx.” He caresses her cheek gently and he seems to enjoy her shuddered breath. Her emotions are swinging between fear and lust, and as he watches her she finds it harder to tell which is more powerful. “This is not a game I mind losing, but one that I assure you I intend to win.”

“This isn’t a game,” she tells him, voice quavering only the slightest bit. At least, it wasn’t a game anymore. It had been her plan initially to buy time from him and have the others handle it, but she’s realizing that she is out of her depth. She’d bartered for their safety in good faith to appease him, and she intended to do as he asked. She didn’t know why he still kept her when they had a verbal agreement.

“Your nerves are dancing under your skin.” He takes a step back, hand leaving her cheek. “I wish to let you know that you are safe here. If it would help, I should remind you that I am a master of illusions. Perhaps you would prefer to see someone less intimidating than myself. A familiar face?” With a few hand gestures his visage changes to Wylym. “Someone entirely new?” He changes into Laerel Silverhand, thick grey curls pillowing around his form. “It’s a mysterious and alluring power. I can be anyone you ask me to be,” he coos, form changing as he steps close once again. “I can even be you.”

He elicits a verbal response when he becomes her. It’s quiet, but the gasp escapes nonetheless from her unwilling lips. She’s looking herself over, checking for some detail that might be wrong as he backs her against the wall. He’s got the details right, and nobody would think to check for authenticity. Folys is stunned and scared of the power he wields, but a small part of her also wants to wield illusory magic.

“Are you admiring the craftsmanship?” Jarlaxle asks in her voice. “Normally with illusions you have to do the guesswork for what you haven’t seen, but I have studied you well.” The leer looks more menacing on her face than it would have on his.

“What do you want from me?” It comes out as a whisper as she meets her own eyes. “I’ve already agreed to the deal.” They hadn’t shaken on it, but Nell’s safety is explicitly tied to Folys’ obedience. She’s mad at herself for having allowed him to get so close before that he could imitate her perfectly. She’s certain that every tattoo and every freckle will be accounted for and in the correct place under the clothes where she can’t see. Study her he did, and she’s ashamed that she had so willingly handed herself over.

“I want many things, Folys. Some things I’ve already told you, and some things that are new. There are many things on the table provided the Stone of Golorr ends up in my possession. I would even offer you those griffin riding lessons Wylym promised.” He laughs, shaking his – her – head slightly. “Don’t worry, I did not steal an identity for him. He is my own fabrication. I had many more planned for you and your group, that was until you so graciously stopped to visit me.”

“Griffin riding?” she manages to get out, almost laughing at the absurdity. Here she is so vulnerable, so scared, and he’s reverting back to an off-handed comment he had made in an effort to bed her. She shakes her head slightly, closing her eyes to avoid looking at herself. “You practically invited me,” she reminds him, voice wavering. She’d only found him because she was chasing after a kidnapped companion. He ignores her statement and leans in closer, pressing his – her – body against her.

“Mainly, I want to know what you’re planning to do now.” He drops his – her – voice to a slowed hush, his left hand taking her right and pressing it against the cool wall. “If your scheme is to stay here, I don’t mind at all.” He’s cooing to her in the voice she uses on her bar patrons. It’s a mix of terrifying, teasing, and enthralling.

‘Is this how I sound?’ She’s not sure what to think of it all. She can certainly see where he might find appeal, watching herself, but it feels so strange. She’s feeling lightheaded as her emotions and thoughts tumble past each other, fogging her ability to think straight. He’s so close, hushed tones the only sound in the room. She can hear her heartbeat quicken over his soft words, ice in her stomach. She’s never been so scared with someone so close. But also, she’s never been so aggressively pursued, nor has she ever turned herself on quite like this before. ‘Now is not the time, body,’ she manages to think, trying to form a clever response to his queries. His right hand starts at her cheek and slowly trails down over the length of her body, resting on her hip. The gentle pressure he holds her with his both alluring and terrifying, exciting her nerves in ways she’s never known.

But she’s soon lost in her own eyes, feeling her mind begin to slip. ‘How is he able to maintain so man different personalities? Did he steal me? Am I being romanced by a past version of myself?’ Her thoughts are becoming more outrageous as she begins to question her own reality. He nips at her ear, breath hot against the sensitive skin. He’s so close it’s maddening, and he’s toying with her just enough to cause her breath to come in quick pants. She is about to spiral off the cliff when she feels a very familiar sensation pressing against her abdomen. They share twin looks of shock for a brief moment before Jarlaxle blushes redder than Folys thought she could turn. But the distraction, however brief, clears her mind enough. This image isn’t quite right. It’s pretty good – really good – but it’s not perfect. And she isn’t feeling like she’s going insane anymore. She’s still scared, still a few steps behind, but he’d given her an opening to try and close the gap.

“Ha-ha, there are some things that not even the most powerful illusions can hide,” he says with a sheepishness he hasn’t displayed in any of his numerous forms, snickering at himself. “I suppose you’ve seen my hand, then. Now don’t ask any more silly questions, Folys. You know what I want.” He’s pressed against her again, kissing her neck in a staccato that runs from just below her ear to her collarbone, hand resuming its trailing actions. He’d been playing her on the knife-edge between fear and lust, and though she’s furious about it, she knows what he wants. Weirdly it’s what she wants too, despite the fact that he is still clearly illusioned to look like her.

“If I’m not supposed to ask questions,” she forces out between stifled moans as he continues to plant kisses between whispered words of his desire, “how am I supposed to ask where you would like me?” This question is a dangerous gamble, if only because she doesn’t know how he’ll react. Especially when he realizes that she’s into it. All of it. He’s terrifying and got a grip on her that she can’t shake – he’s got Nell and the others – but she’s got his full attention, and that is a feeling she could easily become addicted to.

Her words stop him in his tracks, and Folys sees his eyes burn purple as the illusory teal eyes mix with his true ruby eyes. His expression is hungry as he steps back, looking her over once more.

“How bold of you to inquire, my little minx.” He looks away from her briefly, tightening his hold on her wrist. He pulls her to the other door in the room, away from her exit. “Let me show you just where I want you.” She stumbles slightly as she’s pulled along, unable to match his impatient pace.

He pulls her into a dim, candlelit room of faded purples, dark browns, and soft greys. There is a smell of charred darkwood, lavender, and citrus in the air. Warmth emanates from a hearth jutting out from the wall. Large, thick curtains hang in front of the large window, blocking her view of the outside world. The only door in is also the only door out, and Folys realizes just how preposterous this room is to be attached to the interrogation room outside—Jarlaxle must have some control over where the doors attached to the other room lead, but she can’t place the mechanism or magic behind it.

Her gawking at the room is cut short as Jarlaxle tosses her unceremoniously onto the large bed in the middle of the room. Her breath escapes her at the sudden change in location. The bed is soft and luxurious, leagues better than what she’d splurged on to furnish her room at Trollskull Manor.

“Here is where I shall ravish you,” he states. Folys can practically feel the desire rolling off him in waves as he steps up to the foot of the bed. She looks to him – still her mirror image – through her lashes, smiling playfully as he approaches. She pulls herself to a sitting position from the comfort of the mattress and blankets. She doesn’t need to beckon him closer, he’s waltzed right up to her, which means she’ll have to try a different opening move. It seems to Folys that he wants her to be enticing – minx is apparently her new pet name – so she turns the charm up to eleven to comply.

“I very much approve,” she purrs, taking his hand and gently tugging him closer to where she had landed on the bed. “You know just the right place to take a lady.” There’s still a hint of fear in her eyes (she’s essentially in a prison cell, nice as it may be), but it’s overshadowed by the lust mirrored in her reflection. When he is close enough, she grabs the collar of his shirt to pull him in for a kiss, rising to her knees to accommodate the height difference. The grip is firm but nonthreatening, as she has no intentions of leaving or attacking him for the time being. It’s a heated kiss, and Folys doesn’t know where the passion came from. If he had kissed her like this as Wylym, things might have turned out differently. The sting of betrayal might have been worse too, but that wasn’t something she needed to think on.

He’s worked her out of her cloak and tossed it away from the bed, and she’s taken the liberty to pull herself closer to him with his beltloops. He breaks the kiss to get her boots off, pushing her away only briefly. He’s aggressive, but gentle, in his desire to divest her of her clothing, finding different pathways to nip and kiss at her skin. She could almost forget that she is supposed to fear the dangerous man before her.

“Come to bed,” she whispers against his ear, nipping at the lobe. She crooks a finger, beckoning him closer as she lowers herself to the plush mattress. Folys laughs when he doesn’t hesitate to comply.

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emalynde · 8 years

Text

Dwin’orrel and the Dinner Date 1

BACKGROUND:

So we’ve gone over the basic relationship between Emalynde and Thalandril--for the most part. (http://emalynde.tumblr.com/post/156271641901/new-elf-boyfriend-campaign-character-the-oc-of) This RP is following an encounter I ran for our usual DM--since he plays Thalandril. TL;DR some old dude disgruntled with the city’s progression and tolerance toward the drow who defected from Lolth to Eilistraee throws a tantrum. Basically, the Queen, with Jarlaxle’s help, relocated a whole drow house into Leuthilspar and not everyone is onboard with their assimilation. The old dude in question happens to be a senator with great influence within the governing body of Evermeet, since he’s the head of the Defense committee, essentially. Now, the drow are Evermeet’s biggest threat; making friends out of the nice ones is not in the best interest of this senator, Dwin’orrel. Doing so chips away at his preservation of power. So, in order to pivot the inclusion of drow to his benefit, the wizard strikes a deal with Lolth: she gives him the knowledge and her blessing to create Chitine and he punishes the renegade drow for disrespecting her. Chitine are the result of painful, horrific sacrifices of surface elves to Lolth, who infuses them with her ‘spark’ to create these humanoid spider things.

Occasionally, a purer, better version will result from the ritual, a pony-sized, sentient spider called a Choldrith. Dwin’orrel intended to amass an army of these creatures and loose them upon Evermeet, scapegoating the drow in the hopes it would have them relegated back to hated enemy status and kicked from the city. Emalynde got tangled up in this mess on accident, as Dwin’orrel was a client of hers whom she and Thalandril suspected of some wrongdoing, but nothing of such a scale as this. Thus, she likely stumbled upon too much or was unprepared for a confrontation of the situation and ended up as a sacrifice. She, of course, was discovered by Thalandril before the ritual was complete, as the intelligence agent had started looking for her after realizing just who the last client on her schedule was. The following linked RP explains their last interaction and therefore some of Thalandril’s misgivings, along with context. (http://emalynde.tumblr.com/post/156267244801/elf-boyfriends-dd-game-rp) Of course, the dashing rogue saves the day (although admittedly I almost killed him in combat on accident :X) and submits the traitorous mage to the senate to be tried for his crimes. This RP begins when Emalynde comes to. She knows nothing of what occurred. Enjoy <3. *** Given the magnitude of response to the discovery of Dwin'orrel's treason, the 4 surviving elves--including Emalynde--were rehabilitated by the end of the day. Regenerating that much blood was a task requiring just about the highest level clerics, but it was not impossible. The downtown temple of Corellon Larethian was bustling with its current occupants: intelligence agents, some of the Queen's personnel, and the resident clerics. Two of the women were older than the redhead, perhaps middle aged, hovered over by elves with notepads who were scribbling furiously away. The smallest elven girl was less than a hundred and was taking the longest time to recover; she looked like one of the younger priestesses of Hanali--little more than a child.

Emalynde, however, had color back in her cheeks. The marks upon her body had not yet been washed away, but the incisions along the length of her forearms were healed. There wasn't even a scar. Each victim had their own room, what appeared to be quarters for devoted pilgrims or other such guests. Stirring slightly, the redhead heaved a deep sigh, still attempting to discard the veil of unconsciousness. Her brows contract a moment, only to smooth again. With a slight groan, she lifts a hand, resting the extremity against her forehead and temple as fingers rubbed gently at freckled skin. Squinting, the courtier peeks through lidded eyes, seemingly somewhat sensitive to the even muted sunlight streaming in from the window over her bed. ***

Emalynde would notice a few things as she was looking around at the diminished light of the hospital room. The area she was in is bathed in a softened light, as though the sun were coming through a dense cloth, blocking some of the brighter ray, casting an odd, almost eerie, light across the faces moving about. The room she was in had walls made of some sort of plastic-looking lining with runes inscribed all over them, some of them glowing and spinning on the surface of the quarantine walls. People moved about in an ordered fashion taking notes of the other figures lying on beds in the room, monitoring their eyes, heartbeat, and analyzing the words written on all of the elven bodies.

Standing right next to her, speaking quietly, is a face colored in hues of deep indigo and black, stark, ivory hair pulled back under a hooded cloak. The drow priestess smiles reassuringly as she speaks, her accent thick as though she was struggling to put the right words in order. "Do not worry, madam, I am not here to startle you! Please just lay back, I am only making sure you are taken care of. My name is Priestess Elvan’shalee, here to watch over those infected by Lolth--and to bring you back to the world of the living." The drow priestess reached out for Emalynde with a wet cloth smelling of rubbing alcohol to remove the marks on her body. "I was told by a little birdy that you would be able to keep secret about my helping out, no?" The ebon-skinned elf tried to be as calm and reassuring as possible, all while still going about her duties purifying the courtesan before her. "You were the first to wake; the others have not stirred yet. They will not know I was here; but for now... Shhh" She placed a finger to her mouth with a wink in her eye. "I am training the other priests and priestess in how to deal with this before I must be off at the waking of the others… who might not take too kindly to me." Elvan’shalee would go about her duties cleaning up and monitoring Emalynde while explaining to the other healers how to treat the curse and magics at play.

Behind the drow, Emalynde would see Thalandril's second-in-command waiting in the back of the room, making sure everything was going smoothly and keeping his eagle-like eyes on every movement within the room--his ears open for anyone coming, as he was ordered. He makes eye contact with the redhead, and gives her a knowing look. She knew the agent well, having spent almost 50 years as his partner during her youth. He was a good man who had this position due to his loyalty to the crown and to Thalandril personally. The slight, blonde-headed elf approaches and asks her how she is feeling. Ethren almost awkwardly makes small talk before informing Emalynde that Thalandril had been immediately called into a Senate meeting by the Queen to make emergency preparations and decisions based on what had transpired.

***

Emalynde's vision adjusts in increments--blurring in and out for a few moments before the redhead really gets a bearing on her present location. Worry creases the delicate lines etched into the courtier's face as Ema comes to the realization that she knows not where she is. The ebon-skinned visage appears before the enchantress' eyes, causing her to start somewhat-- although the reaction manifests mostly as a sharp intake of breath. As the drow speaks, Emalynde does just as requested of her--lying back onto her pillow with only slight trepidation playing across her feminine features.

While the priestess applies the sodden cloth to her skin, Emalynde glances down slightly, noting that she was both naked and covered in odd markings--which the woman seemed to be cleaning away. At the mention of an informant, puzzlement furrows the enchantress’ brow momentarily, still not having quite enough information with which to place the individual. But she spies the familiar face of Ethrend. The puzzlement and worry eased from the contours of Emalynde's face, drawing in a deep breath of relief. It didn't matter that she had no idea what was happening. Thalandril's fingers were dug deep into whatever this was, given that Ethrend was here.

Her caretaker spoke of others, the information prompting Emalynde to glance over to the three women who were receiving similar treatment--although without drow aid. Curiosity piqued the redhead's interest, allowing her gaze to alight upon her darker-skinned counterpart. "You are quite lovely," the freckled elf states almost matter-of-factly. Her tones were sweet and complimentary, attempting to lift a hand to brush against the priestess' face--presumably--but couldn't quite manage the movement. It looks like she lifts a hand toward the woman but the gesture is weak and wavering. This fatigue was sobering. Never had Emalynde felt so thoroughly exhausted by such a small motion. The courtesan cracks a smile at her limited motion, instead offering, "Thank you."

As Ethrend journeyed to her side, the freckled elf made no show of covering herself or otherwise even taking note of her bare figure. She would appear much as Ethrend remembered her, almost 100 years ago. At the kind inquiry, the redhead favors her former lover with a beguiling smile dampened only be her weakened state, "Well, now that you have come to visit me." Her digits twitch slightly in his direction, seeking his touch. Emalynde would effortlessly engage in small talk, asking of his own life's events as well. She never made herself the topic of conversation unless pressed--which was sometimes what was required of her. Many of her clients--for whatever reason--reveled in simply listening to her speak, fascinated with her person.

At the news of Thalandril, both crimson brows loft in muted surprise. "Senate meeting? But he so abhors such formalities. And with the Queen, no less." Golden eyes flick toward Ethrend, slightly narrowed and appraising, "What has happened, Ethrend?"

#Dwin'orrel and the Dinner Date #rp #Ema writes stuff #Emalynde Ilayne Inara #Thalandril Van'drys #Ethrend Lath'aenir #dungeonsanddragons #dungeons and dragons #d&d #d&d 5e #d&d shenanigans #because I really only write about elves #writing #short story #headcanon

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galaxa-13 · 5 years

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Extra long D&D session tonight for an extra long battle.

So we start the fight against Ludmilla the vampire. There are many NPCs running around. On the one hand we have the party, the bride and groom, Vellan and his soldiers, Jarlaxle and his men, a couple of tieflings, Magnus, Suri, Fob, and some dwarves. On the other hand we have Ludmilla, her guards, and a seemingly charmed king of Bilviera. All the other NPCs flee into the reception hall of the church.

Fob tries to hide Sia under his cape, but she just kind of pushes him aside and runs up to the balcony to start hurling firebolts down at Ludmilla. She misses all her attacks, unfortunately. Not wanting to seem useless Fob also tries to do some magic of his own, but instead it backfires and gives himself fire breath. Not wanting to belch fire on his crush standing in front of him he turns around and instead belches fire towards... his family. Luckily he kind of aimed at the floor so he only caught the carpet and his brother’s cape on fire.

Suri whips his cape off and uses it to stomp out all the fire. He also chews out his brother for even bothering to do magic when he knows he sucks at it. He spends his turn putting out the fire and directing angry disappointment at his brother for not taking things seriously enough. Fob is insulted. How dare this eight-year-old try and tell him he’s not taking things seriously! He tries more magic. Instead of damaging the enemy the attack heals himself (when he was already at full HP). Sia isn’t really paying attention to his poor attempt to help and instead makes Tafari twice his normal size.

Tafari, having already transformed into his were-lion form, is now 20ft tall and with a jump is able to claw at Ludmilla who had climbed up the wall like a spider. He also grabs her leg and tries to drag her back down into a range the others can hit. Unfortunately instead of her brass arms she decided to wear her silver arms to the wedding. She claws back at him and cleaves through all his resistances thanks to silver being a trump card against lycanthropes.

At some point Amon threw his magic sunlight dagger at Ludmilla and it got lodged in her back. She couldn’t pull it out so it was just stuck in her, giving her constant disadvantage and taking away her ability to heal herself. The tieflings each did a couple of shots at the guards before retreating into the reception hall with the other guests. Also Erol had apparently snuck into the wedding in drag (because he didn’t want anyone to know he set foot in a dwarven church) and he started playing his viol off in the back out of the way of all the fighting, but close enough to be in range of Sia. So she started getting extra dice rolls to her attacks because of this pretty lady she most certainly had never met before.

Tafari’s daughter’s new husband decided to whip out his own lycanthropy powers. He turns into a were-polarbear. His family is unsurprised, but the dwarves are momentarily surprised before breaking into cheers. Magnus tries to get his friend the king to snap out of it, but it doesn’t seem to work so he just grapples him instead, since the king is now hostile towards them.

Suddenly some portals start to open up near the ceiling. They seem to lead out into the surface. One has rain coming through it (which freaks out all the drow who have never seen rain before), another shows a city at sunset, and a third is angled in such a way that nobody can really get a good look through it. Sorrow’s winged cat guide goes flying into the city and disappears through the portal.

Ludmilla decides she’s had enough of all this fighting and decides to scream. Almost everyone takes damage and becomes stunned. Luckily Sia was one of the few not even targeted so when Ludmilla comes skittering across the wall she encircles her in fire. Ludmilla fails her saving throw. She not only takes a bunch of fire damage, but the shock causes her to fall off the wall. She takes more fire damage as she falls through the fire and she also takes damage as she smacks into the floor. Sia did between 50-60 damage with one turn. Go Sia. Ludmilla starts crying and throwing a tantrum. This was also right below the one portal that had the rain so she lands in a puddle.

Fob ran down from the balcony and in front of Ludmilla. He tried another spell and this time it backfired in a way as to make his fingernails give temporary HP if he were to eat them. Groovy. Ludmilla looks up and sees this boy pointing a wand at her and assumes he was the one to do that fire wall. So she decides to cast a spell that takes all his Charisma and Intelligence points down to 1. Fob is now stupider than a dog. He flops over on the ground and starts blowing spit bubbles.

Various other characters spend various amount of turns trying to become unstunned. Tafari is no longer big because Sia stopped concentrating on him.

The robed figure of many faces/many voices suddenly appears. Nobody really knows what to do with them. They don’t seem hostile? They tell the matron that Master Orlerieni had everyone trapped in his dream or his memories or something and now that he’s dead things are falling apart. Nobody understands what they’re talking about. The figure takes out a spell book that Tafari recognizes as probably being the book that was stolen out of the gnome tomb when he saw a robed figure fleeing in the dark. The figure makes fireworks appear inside the church. No one knows what to make of this.

Then the figure turns one of Ludmillas guards into a frog. The dwarves start chasing the frog around the church to stomp it dead (eventually they just give up and go into the reception hall with the rest of the guests). The figure tries to make Sorrow fly, but unfortunately for them it’s a touch based spell and not a ranged spell so nothing happens. Everyone just elects to ignore this random... thing and let it mess around with magic by itself.

Ludmilla summons a bunch of rats to come fight for her. Since Flock had previously pretty much killed off the rat population in the town via alcoholic cheese what she summons is actually swarms of zombie rats. Lovely.

Oh yeah, at one point Jarlaxle had shot the king with a sleep dart or something when Magnus had been stunned. He and his men yoinked the king’s body and slipped into the reception hall and started eating the wedding cake while the others continued to fight the vampire and her remaining guards. Ludmilla decided to charm Tafari. Sia decided to charm Tafari herself and get him back on their side. Ludmilla then turned around and charmed Tafari’s new son-in-law. Said son-in-law had an ability where he took damage for whomever he considered an ally. So every time a double-charmed Tafari tried to hurt Ludmilla he’d smack the polar bear instead. His daughter was very unhappy with both her father beating up her husband and her husband taking blows for some other chick. Oof, I’ve been trying to keep things in order. but it was a long game and I forgot to mention Tafari’s daughter had transformed herself into a drider (think centaur, but with a giant spider instead of a horse). Oh yeah, she also rescued Fob from the floor before Ludmilla could bite him. She carried him up to the balcony and wrapped him in a web cocoon before he rolled over and killed himself.

Most of Ludmillas guards had been killed at this point. Vellan and his soldiers had been equiped not with normal swords, but actually wooden training swords. These swords were sharper than normal training equipment though. Since Sia had told the matron that a vampire with brass arms had wanted to kill Orlereini the Ds’Eers had prepared their guards with stakes. Tafari’s daughter had picked up a dropped one earlier. She jumped down from the balcony and landed right on Ludmilla, driving the wooden words into her chest. Ludmilla was now paralyzed. She was quickly wrapped up in her own little web cocoon to prevent the wooden sword from being removed. Only two guards were left and they were quickly outnumbered and captured as well. The battle was finally over.

Oh yeah, and Ottinger had been at the wedding and hiding out in the reception hall, but her got pissed off when Jarlaxle and his men came in and refused to go out and help finish the battle against the vampire. So he came out and managed to get in a Magic Missile before the whole affair had ended. Sia was the only one to notice Ottinger, but since was also the only one who hadn’t gone on the dragon slaying mission she was the only one she didn’t know who he was. She gave him a thumbs up for the help. He gave her one back (he had also winked at Erol when we went by him, making Erol roll his eyes).

#gal plays

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emalynde · 8 years

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Elf Boyfriends D&D Game RP!

((So we have our magnificent D&D game that has been affectionately titled the elf boyfriends campaign--it’s the game that yields the D&D SSO journals from Chelyse’s perspective. I also have another storyline woven into the campaign kinda behind the scenes that features Thalandril--Chelyse’s brand new lifemate--and the woman who would now be considered his consort. Here’s a bit of their interactions. I’ll be writing and clarifying what’s occurred to catch everyone up on the slowly converging story, too. All the RP \o/)) Emalynde was lounging casually in the overstuffed armchair that sat in the corner of Thalandril's office, a somewhat coy and confident cast to her demeanor. She was early. Earlier than he was to arrive to his own place of work. A write-up had been tossed upon his desk, intentionally haphazard in the way that it was at an angle compared to the perfectly positioned papers, writing utensils, and other such materials. Because the agent would be familiar with Emalynde on a personal level, he might note that she seemed ever so slightly tired--as if she had not had the time to trance fully--and that the redhead sported a select few cuts and bruises. The abrasions might allude to the fact that she had seen some physical confrontation recently, although the traces of as much were hastily concealed, albeit not entirely. She was here to report in, although the enchantress did not always do so in person. Emalynde's most recent endeavor had been to gather intelligence upon an upper-echelon noble that was suspected of allowing the drow passage into Evermeet--and not for the purposes Jarlaxle would support. Drow infiltration was perhaps the one, serious threat to the sun elves of Leuthilspar, as the capital was a more likely target for actual damage rather than simple raids. Whatever information the smirking elf retrieved, it seemed to have been a more difficult task than normal. Or otherwise special in some way. It was a delicate matter, certainly, given that the individual in question was rather high-ranking, but of dour importance given his proximity and influence exerted upon the ruling parties of Evermeet.

*** The door to Thalandril's office opened as the lithe elf walked in, nose buried into a report in his hands. Without seeming to miss a beat, he snaps his fingers and a series of candles light across the room, giving a scented glow to the ambiance. "I assume the mission went well, seeing as you're early?" He stated, proceeding to walk to his desk and lower the report onto a perfectly squared stack of papers. He unconsciously tidied up after, make doubly sure everything was in neat working order across his desk.He didn't mention the fact that it was quite obvious she had a run in with one of the more notorious female abusers of the city. She was, in fact, one of his best operatives, and had proven she could handle herself in a pinch. Letting emotion cloud the way he treated her was exactly what he was having to bury away. This was professional now. Their past could not intercede with the future; this was the way it had to be. Thalandril had a look of almost forced professionalism, as memories of what conspired upon his desk on numerous occasions flew through his brain. He coughed politely and regained his composer. *** Emalynde arches a single, well-shaped brow, rising from her seat with feline grace--the movement fluid and graceful. It was also sensuous in its way, every muscle of her form trained to move in the most appealing manner possible--when she wished it so. Despite looking a bit worn, the redhead smirks, smooth steps carrying her toward Thalandril's desk, where the rogue stood. "Well enough," she laughs, the sound light and melodic. It was her orchestrated laugh, and he would know it. It was too perfect. Too well-constructed.It was unlike Thalandril to not even look at her. His aloofness was a staple of their playful banter that the Companion relished, but it was if the intelligence agent refused to view her. Advancing to the edge of his desk, Emalynde rests her palms upon its surface, leaning forward into the posture. She sought his gaze, now intrigued as to what had caused this perceived change of mood (for that was what she presumed this shift to be). "You missed me little, I see," the redhead teases, paying rather close attention to even the smallest details of her friend's reaction. She does somber in an instant, though, allowing Thalandril only a brief moment to respond. "Dwin'orrel did not allow me the time I would have preferred to move about his home, nor were his premises left unguarded." A slight sigh parts the enchantress' lips, letting her line of sight drift off to the side slightly in resignation. "I have permit another rendezvous with the magister to satisfy your curiosity, my dear Head of Intelligence Operations." The title was almost mocking, given their personal relationship--even if it was only as close friends. Her golden eyes flick back up to attempt to meet Thalandril's own, quite serious. "I hope you appreciate the gesture. This one does not play nicely." *** Thalandri'ls golden eyes darted away at the comment. Of course he missed her, but now he couldn't. He had finally been reunited with the one who truly held his heart. Lust was always a vice they shared, however, even that was too far for what he was now doing. This was for the best. "Did I now?" He replied coolly, not knowing how to really continue this exchange, since he would no longer allow himself to dance with the redhead so. Realizing she was getting right into the report, he relaxed a bit, no longer worried about where to take the conversation. He listened intently to the priestess’ words, playing them back through his head as he thought through and analyzed everything brought to his attention. "I do think that is best. Another meeting with this man may get us what we want. It just so happens you have an appointment with Lamruil Teth'Sol; he has been commissioned to make you a full new wardrobe. Benefits of the job I suppose." He tossed a quick smirk at Emalynde. Lamruil was the best tailor in the entirety of Evermeet - maybe even all of Faerun. At over a thousand years old, the ancient elf had perfected his craft. His wait list is hundreds of years long for a single dress. The things Thalandril had to do to procure this will keep the Head of Intelligence up for a few trance-less nights. *** Emalynde's heart sank slightly at the exchange. Seldom was Thalandril unsure of himself--or of anything, really--but that's what she saw marked upon her childhood friend's face. Or, what she thought she saw, at least. The redhead could never truly be sure, although she would never admit as much to him. Part of the Companion wanted to press the issue, to see exactly what the matter was--but now wasn't the time. Emalynde cared for Thalandril and could tell that something was troubling him, but she knew not what. She watches him while she relayed her news, appraising his mannerisms and body language. While they were by no means officially involved, the pair shared one another's bed regularly--and that was the only time Thalandril truly let his walls down around her. Playing along, although she was inwardly rather worried, Emalynde's eyes lit up, standing upright suddenly to clasp both hands to her chest. "Thalandril," she purrs, still putting on somewhat of a show in keeping with their typical maneuvers, "You do love me." Emalynde tosses a wink at the intelligence agent, relaxing into a more casual posture once more. "An entire wardrobe, hmm? You must be painfully unaware of just how many garments are currently in my possession." She was toying with him plainly, utilizing the tone of voice intended to cause his hair to stand on end and his mouth to become dry--among other choice bodily reactions. Emalynde also knew that Thalandril would recognize her rather obvious methods. She was testing their waters, and therefore was conveying indirectly that she was aware that something was amiss and was concerned. All without saying as much--nor making anything awkward. Emalynde assumed the most endearing pose she could, something she had use on the intelligence agent before to curry his favor. Having spent almost 150 years in the rogue's company in one way or another, the redhead was privy to some of Thalandril's proclivities. She hadn't had to actually try with the blonde in what seemed like centuries; they had always danced this seamless dance that came to her as easy as breathing. "My place tonight, then, as usual?" Something pulled at Emalynde's chest, as if she were short of breath slightly. Perhaps this was worse than she thought. It was the beginnings of slight unease, the priestess always assuming that if something was wrong, it was her fault. It was always her fault, it seemed. She spoke somewhat softly, in a voice reserved for intimate conversations that followed their bedroom escapades. The enchantress was sparing no punches here, aiming directly for Thalandril's heartstrings. *** Thalandril stood up and moved fluidly over to one of his immaculate bookcases, subtly rearranging this and that, as though nervously fidgeting. "As usual? That makes you sound predictable Emalynde. Tsk tsk." He smiled outwardly, but cringed inwardly. Does he do this slow and easy, or go right for the blunt truth of the matter? Unknowingly, he closed his eyes as he decided he had to choose now, the strain almost evident. It was not normal for him to be like this; the rogue was normally so cool and controlled. Why was this getting to him? He was in love with Chelyse, and wanted to devote himself to her. He couldn't do that with Emalynde around in their current capacity. "I think we should go for a spot of tea." The last thing he wanted to do was hurt what was most probably his closest friend. "It is quite stuffy in here; a nice breeze may clear things up." He offered his arm to her, and a genuine smile. She was ravishing, alluring, enticing... The agent stopped himself from that line of thought as his blood started to heat up. This would be harder than he thought it would be... Was this the right choice? *** Emalynde watches the rogue move around her, sensitive to every minute expression upon his face. As the intelligence agent traveled to toy with the numerous books within their case, the redhead frowned. Straightening, smooth steps carry her within an inch of his person, her freckled visage tilted upwards so that he could not avoid her rather direct confrontation. "You, too, are rather predictable, my dear Thalandril." It was a low blow, to say his name like that. It was a trait she utilized with her clients: the subtle, honeyed pronunciation of their name--as if it's utterance held special weight and connotation. She had made frequent use of it when Thalandril and herself were meeting at the monthly gala, but it had probably been only every so often--and only on special occasions--since then. "You forget that I know exactly what makes your knees weak." She attempts to hold his gaze, so that he knew that she knew. The response just about baffled her, causing the enchantress to blink almost blankly at her friend before slipping her arm into his. All this was so unlike him. What could she possibly have done wrong? "Later, then," she concedes, reverting back to her normal tones and behavior. Emalynde pauses a bit, halting their progress, as she asks: "I have not seen the damage; must I spend a few more moments healing my... abrasions? I do not wish to draw attention to them." Tending to the marks if necessary, the pair soon head out into the streets of downtown Leuthilspar--the most active elven city in existence. They had a place they preferred to dine, although typically for brunch or drinks. It would work for tea. The Companion flashes a warm smile at the waitress, intentionally acting as if she were Thalandril's consort just to spite him for the earlier rejection. Settling down across from her friend, the redhead rests her elbows against the table, fingers threaded into one another so that she could rest her chin upon the platform created. "What needs to be cleared up?" Despite Thalandril's prowess at their dance, he was certainly off his game this morning and Emalynde saw no point in beating about the bush, so to speak. *** Leaning back in his chair, elbows resting on the arms with his hands together, fingers threaded with a single pair of digits sticking up, Thalandril keeps the gaze of the priestess. "Right to the point then, are we?" He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, taking in a deep breath. Upon exhalation, he opened his eyes and started up at the ceiling. How to do this: "I'm sure you're aware I have been bound, yes? Chelyse came back into town, and it was rather quickly that it all happened." He looked down to see her reaction upon mention of Chelyse's name. Everyone knew the young paladin was bound to come back at some point. It had been 50 years. No messages. No warning. He couldn't break Emalynde's cover that she had--until this morning--been under to inform her. He knew that the Companion would worry that it was something that she had done, and thus felt compelled to explain. That was always one of her flaws. But could she understand? She did not know what love felt like, and now he did. What the two of them had was lust. Incredible lust... but in the end it was simply companionship. That was her job after all, and she was so horribly good at it. He's not even sure the young prodigy of Hanali knew what love was, with the life that she lived. He hoped one day she might find it. Somewhere. *** The redhead arches a single brow, making little effort to conceal how perplexed she was at the mention of his business arrangement; what had it to do with her? "Yes. I have met the girl while acting as Companion for her eldest brother. Sweet family, although I must admit they keep rather strange company. That is an awful lot of sha'quessir to designate at once, much less for a single house. What of it?" Emalynde's mind raced through the many possible explanations for his behavior--was he simply filling her in as to some parameter of his new relationship that had soured his disposition? Or perhaps he was cross that she had been away so long. She softened at that thought, the slight irritation at Thalandril's indirectness ebbing away. A silken slippered foot moves to brush against his ankle and slightly upwards, her voice more gentle, "What ails you?" *** "As much we both know, I love the game we have played. However... I feel it is best not to play it any longer. May I speak candidly? As friends?" Thalandril asked, pained by something. Having to deal with feelings--and the way others felt--was difficult as it was, but adding to it the complexities of playing a mind game at the same time is needless. Especially when it might end up burning the other person rather badly. Plus, who best to help him understand himself and what was happening than Emalynde? She was always the one that helped ground him and figure out dilemmas as would a normal person, instead of the almost mechanical being he had attempted to be for so many years. They had probably had dozens of candid conversation, where the game was turned off and they could just discuss what was happening in their lives. It was a logical process, seeing as the only real, true friendship the other had seemed to be sitting across the table. He hadn't even realized that he had put pressure against the young elf's silken foot, until he got a slight jolt up his spine. She was good. Damn her. His face blushed ever so slightly at her touch, but he did not pull away. His heart rate had already begun to pick up, as he waited for his companion’s reply. *** Emalynde's expression reflected the confusion that permeated her thoughts. "If you wished to discuss something personal," she muses aloud, "your office was perfectly suitable..." He might be able to watch the processes unfold upon her visage, putting piece after piece together to try to figure him out. "But of course." She gestures with her words, sweeping a hand outward in a short gesticulation. But a smirk quickly curls her lips as she realized that Thalandril was actually blushing at her touch. The Companion lets her gaze alight upon the intelligence agent triumphantly. "Have you missed me so thoroughly that you cannot find it in yourself to play?" Emalynde seemed rather pleased with herself. "You have been rather off your stride this morning. I daresay I win." The rogue receives a most beguiling smile, one that's so genuine of her desire to best the most cunning adversary the freckled elf had known. Driving her point home, Emalynde slides her pointed foot upwards along the inside of Thalandril's calf, the movement intended to be alluring. It was mostly playful, though, as one of their pastimes is making the other blush publically. And she had won so easily. *** Thalandril tried to focus on the matter at hand, as the elven temptress worked her trade on him, riling him up. He coughed into a handkerchief and moved to pour some tea. "I am not on my game today, I'm afraid. One of those occasions, it seems." He let out a sigh as he filled his own cup with tea--the perfect amount followed by an exact amount of sugar and milk, as he had done a thousand times the same. "I will let you have this little victory, even if you cheat." He winked at her as he filled a second cup with dark brown, sweet-smelling tea, going about making it the way she liked. "I guess we should start with a story, then." Thalandril then goes into detail about the evening he had with Chelyse and the others at the sushi bar on the shore: how it began, proceeded, and ended. "Since then... I have felt... different . As though there was something more. However, I cannot really grasp the whole feeling." She could see the pain under his eyes; he was not used to being confused or not having control of a situation--that being his feelings for Chelyse. "These feelings are leading me to desire nothing but Chelyse." He took in a deep drink of his tea, warmed by the perfect mixture, knowing that this would indeed hurt his lovely companion, but hoped that his explanation would help her realize that it was not her fault in any way. *** At Thalandril's sincerity, the freckled elf ceased her teasing, a slight smile still hovering against her mouth, but more so fond than anything else. She does beam, though, as the rogue admits defeat--like an eager student, almost, receiving praise from a mentor. But she does not gloat. "Thank you," she says gently, already leaning forward across the table slightly to cup the tea Thalandril was pouring her with both hands. She listens attentively to the story told to her, reacting genuinely as it unfolded. Emalynde understood as the narrative drew on. She had been on several such outings with customers who had made a habit of continuously frequenting her company. Those who made the most use of her companionship, regulating her--in their minds--to the role of lover. They found actual love, broke the news to her as one would a partner--despite the fact she did not return that sentiment--and then went on their way. Why should she be surprised when it happened with Thalandril? But she was. The feeling crept up on her, as she realized what was occurring, like a growing unease. A smile remained fixed to her freckled features all the same, not daring to let him see. Don't be silly, she told herself, it is not as if he does not wish to see you ever again. Whereas her clients were just that--clients--Thalandril was her friend... her employer, in a way, with whom she shared a rather intimate relationship, admittedly. Reaching out, she places a warmed hand (a result of cupping her glass) upon his own. "I am happy for you," she remarks in softened tones, genuine in her well-wishes. Not one to leave anything unclarified, Emalynde continues forwardly, "I shall return your... possessions that have remained at my home." She was making sure that he did not intend to visit her in that capacity again. Gods, why was this difficult? *** Thalandril sighed in relief. "Thank you; I guess it would be... proper to have it all returned. Although your residence is always a safe place to hide out without worrying about having my things on me..." He mused about the tactical implications of keeping a set of clothes and toiletries at Emalynde's home, not even considering that she was meaning he might not visit her again in the way he had for so long. "I do, however, hope to keep up our regular outings; you do happen to be the only friend I can go out with, you know." The roguish elf smiled at her, equally worried about her, but happy that she had not made an issue of the situation. "Would you care to order anything? My treat of course." *** Emalynde lets her fingers slide slowly free from atop Thalandril's hand, sitting up properly with the same, shield-like smile on. She was afraid that her closest friend would see through her, but he did indeed seem very much off his game. To her advantage, at least, she thought. How odd this sensation was. It unsettled her more that she could not place it, what it was. She was unwilling to admit any jealousy. Thalandril’s and her relationship was not like that. Perhaps the problems was that someone else was taking up the time of the individual she had spent the last 100 years of her life with. The smile that turned the corner of her lips upward was one of relief, almost. "I would like that," she admits, her fear at being discarded abating somewhat. It was just the sex, then. Emalynde could easily replace the intelligence agent with a number of willing participants--he had just been her partner of choice for so long. At the invitation to dine with the rogue, Emalynde politely declines, her expression somewhat unreadable. "Forgive me," she explains, "I do not feel entirely well." It wasn't a lie; she did feel strange. And discussing it with her closest friend felt... wrong. Standing, the redhead offers her friend a smile before gliding toward Thalandril's chair, bending at the waist to cup his jaw in a gentle hand. Softly, she presses her lips to his. If he yielded to the kiss, she would engage him more deeply for a few moments, ultimately pulling away. The tips of her fingers trailed against his jaw, departing without another word. *** "I see. Well then, perhaps another time. I do hope you feel better." He saw through this. This was her act, her job, but why was she behaving so? This was unlike her. Thalandril watched as the freckled elf got up and walk over to him. At first he was surprised at her lips touching his. He did not, however, resist, instead letting his blood become more heated. She was one hell of a individual. Even with her guard up, she could make him feel lightheaded. The rogue watched after Emalynde as she exited the establishment, hoping he still had a friendship intact. That relationship was very meaningful to him. Worry crept up his throat, though, at the possibility she had not left amiably; did he miscalculate? Is that even possible? ((All this happens the day before Chelyse returns to Evermeet from Nexus for a brief stay. Day after that, Chelyse and Thalandril have lunch and she tells him that she’s staying in Nexus permanently and in love with Kasimir. He’s not pleased. In fact, he storms out of the restaurant. To add to the rogue’s bad day, Emalynde isn’t ever home when he looks for her, she doesn’t respond to his calls, etc. She disappears. The DM lovingly titled this bit of storyline as, “I’ve got 99 problems and bitches are all of them,” a remark by Thalandril.))

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