#too much abbil

[princefleabittenpersonal]

Jarlaxle canonly lies about his age😂💕

[ratsetflummi]

An Icewind Dale Reunion

in which entreri learns that drizzt is still alive slightly ahead of schedule

-

“I never wanted Drizzt dead!” Artemis angrily burst out.

“Could have fooled me,” Jarlaxle drawled.

Artemis sighed. “I just- It doesn't matter. He's dead. I'm done with you.” He spun around and continued walking down the dirt path away from Jarlaxle.

“What if he wasn't?” Jarlaxle called after him and took some quick steps to catch up with him.

Artemis glared at him, which was at least some improvement, even if his tone remained flat. “Are you going to suggest that we go to the Astral Plane to retrieve his soul?”

“I believe we won't have to travel quite that far. He was in Icewind Dale last I heard.”

“He's what?”

The sky overhead was a beautiful crystal blue, the birds were singing, a gentle breeze rustling through the leaves, and now, with Crenshinnibon destroyed for good, Jarlaxle was finally in a mind to enjoy it. Artemis, walking down the dirt road next to him, gave no indication of liking the nature around them any more than he would like crawling through a sewer, but then Artemis never gave any indication of liking anything.

After enjoying the peaceful quiet for about three minutes, Jarlaxle spoke up. “I was thinking-”

“I don’t care,” Artemis immediately shot him down.

“Come now, this involves you too. I was thinking, once we get back to the city I’ll contact Kimmuriel and tell him that he can keep control of Bregan D’aerthe for now, so we can go travelling some more. How do you feel about the Bloodstone Lands?”

“The hell you are.”

Artemis’ tone put somewhat of a damper on Jarlaxle’s mood. He’d known his companion long enough now to tell that he was genuinely annoyed at something.

“Huh?”

“I’m not travelling with you anymore. As soon as we get back to the city I’m leaving.”

“Oh? But we're such a great team!” Jarlaxle attempted to cheer the man up and change his mind.

Artemis stopped in his tracks to spin around and point an accusing glare at Jarlaxle. “I helped you destroy the Crystal Shard because I wanted the shard destroyed. Don't mistake my professional interest for a desire to work with you.”

Jarlaxle was serious now too. “Abbil, where is this coming from?”

Entreri had been fairly certain that he had made his displeasure clear, but evidently the drow was more of an idiot than he’d thought.

“You killed- You made me kill-” He trailed off, looking down at his hand–the hand that had plunged into Drizzt’s chest.

Jarlaxle raised an eyebrow at him. “Is this about Drizzt again? I thought we were done with him.”

“I was done with him. You were the one who dragged him back into my life.”

“Oh please.” Jarlaxle rolled his eyes, and Enteri had to try very hard not to plunge his dagger into the idiot’s eye then and there. “You were still obsessed with him.”

“So you force me to kill him,” Entreri growled.

“Force?” The idiot drow dramatically flailed his hands in the air. “You'd been trying to kill him for years!”

“I never wanted him dead!” He angrily burst out before immediately deflating as the truth of the words sank in. He hadn't let himself think about it, but he had truly never wanted to kill Drizzt.

“Could have fooled me.”

Entreri sighed. “I just- It doesn't matter. He's dead. I'm done with you.” He spun around and continued walking down the dirt path away from Jarlaxle.

Jarlaxle frowned at Artemis’ flat tone and at the sigh. Artemis wasn’t someone who sighed. He growled and snarled and sometimes even laughed mockingly, but he didn’t sigh.

Jarlaxle liked riling his companion up, but this wasn’t that. Artemis wasn’t getting riled up, he was shutting down.

Maybe this was one of those times where honesty was the better choice that he had heard so much about.

There was a certain risk that came with telling Artemis the truth about this one thing in particular–there had been a reason why Jarlaxle hadn’t said anything before–but…

“What if he wasn't?” He called after Artemis and took some quick steps to catch up with him.

Artemis glared at him, which was at least some improvement, even if his tone remained flat. “Are you going to suggest that we go to the Astral Plane to retrieve his soul?”

“I believe we won't have to travel quite that far. He was in Icewind Dale last I heard.”

That finally got a rise out of the man again. “He's what?”

“I employ some powerful clerics,” Jarlaxle shrugged.

And there was that fire again that Jarlaxle found so fun to play with. “And you didn't think to tell me this?”

Jarlaxle raised his hands placatingly. “I thought you would be upset if you learned that he’s alive.”

Artemis took a deep breath and rubbed the bridge of his nose, and for a moment Jarlaxle thought that this might be the time where the man actually stabbed him.

When after a moment no dagger came flying at his face he asked, “So we're going to Icewind Dale then?”

-

The walk to the city had been quiet and somewhat awkward with Artemis in no mood to talk to Jarlaxle. So, very much the usual, really. With the major difference that Jarlaxle thought it best not to bother his companion too much. At least at first.

The ship they’d bought passage on was halfway up the Sword Coast when his impatience finally got the better of him. The waiting was making him antsy, and the silent treatment from his partner was making him annoyed. He needed a distraction, and there were some questions he needed to ask anyway.

He found Artemis leaning on a railing at the back of the ship, looking out over the sparkling sea tinted pink and orange by the setting sun.

Jarlaxle leaned on the railing next to him, but rather than looking at the sunset, he looked at his companion, catching him in one of the few moments where he looked relaxed.

He almost felt bad about breaking the peace. Almost. “So, what are your plans for when we find Drizzt?” And because he was feeling spiteful, he added, “What was the point of chasing him all over the world if you didn't want to kill him?”

Artemis tensed, and the serene look on his face was immediately replaced by a scowl.

“I told you before,” he ground out, levelling a glare at Jarlaxle. “It was about proving which one of us was the better fighter.”

Jarlaxle did his level best to convey how unimpressed he was in a single look.

“I thought you'd proven that quite thoroughly when he was lying dead at your feet.”

Artemis’ scowl deepened and he fully turned to face Jarlaxle now. “In a fair fight. I didn't beat him without outside influence.” His anger mellowed out a bit and turned into a quiet bitterness. “He would have killed me if your lieutenant hadn't interfered.”

Jarlaxle studied him silently for a bit, thinking back to that moment. That wasn’t what had happened though, now was it? He almost felt bad about voicing his observation. Almost. “He wasn't going to kill you. You were going to kill yourself on his blade.”

Artemis growled at him.

“Oh, was that the part I'm not supposed to say out loud? Whoops,” Jarlaxle deadpanned. “So, we find him, and you fight him, you get yourself killed, and I get to put you back together again. Does that sound right? Well, unfortunately I'm not interested in watching you kill yourself.”

Artemis grit his teeth and turned back towards the ocean.

“I never asked you to put me back together.”

The whispered response was quiet enough that Jarlaxle was sure he wasn’t meant to hear it. He wasn’t feeling quite spiteful enough to open that can of worms just yet. His voice turned softer as he thought that Artemis might start to shut down again.

“So what are your plans for when we find him? You don't want to kill him and I refuse to watch you die. What then? Will you ask to become one of his companions? I'm not sure if he is that forgiving.”

Artemis sighed. “I don't have plans for him. We're going to check if he's still alive, and if he is then I don't have to kill you.”

-

Drizzt jumped when somebody sat down in the chair next to him–somebody he hadn't heard approaching–full mug of mead coming down on the table with a heavy thunk.

Drizzt jumped again when he recognized the small man who was now sitting next to him.

He was halfway out of his chair when the man's hand clamped down on his forearm, not forcefully enough to hurt, but with enough force to pull him back down onto his chair.

“Calm down,” the man growled, releasing Drizzt's arm as soon as Drizzt was sitting back down again.

“Entreri?” Drizzt hissed, hand going towards his scimitars just in case. He had been having a nice day, but his mood instantly soured when he saw the assassin. “I thought you were done. You've killed me, what more do you want?”

The human didn't answer, instead staring intently at the mug he was holding in a death grip.

“I don't want to fight you,” Drizzt said, in what he assumed would be a futile attempt to dissuade the human from violence.

To his surprise the human just sighed. “I know.”

“Then why are you here?” Drizzt asked, still suspicious.

The human sighed again. “I wanted to see if it's true. See if you're actually alive.”

Drizzt narrowed his eyes at the man. “To make sure I'll stay dead this time?”

He'd never heard the man sigh this much before. Or at all really, now that he thought about it.

“I didn't intend to kill you.”

“Could have fooled me.”

The assassin barked out a laugh, seeming lost in a memory.

Drizzt squirmed in his chair. Something was very wrong with this situation. He couldn't say that he had ever known the man particularly well, but he'd never been anything like this.

After a moment the human shook his head and grew sombre again.

“I didn't want to kill you.”

Drizzt studied the man for a moment where he sat hunched over, head lowered. He still hadn't looked at Drizzt.

Drizzt knew that the assassin was speaking the truth. He very clearly remembered every second leading up to his death; Clearly remembered the human loudly running up to him, loud enough that Drizzt couldn't possibly be taken by surprise; Remembered taking a wide swing that could have easily been blocked, had the human so chosen. The man hadn't even tried to defend.

Drizzt had tried to avoid thinking about it until now.

But looking at the man now, the deep weariness that seemed to permeate his entire body, didn't leave him a choice.

Artemis Entreri had wanted to die.

Had tried to kill himself on Drizzt's blade.

Drizzt didn't know what to do with that. The sudden bout of empathy he felt didn't change the past. It didn't mean that he had to like the man, or even that he had to forgive him.

“Why,” he asked, not sure which part he was referring to.

Entreri shrugged. “Why does anyone do anything?”

Drizzt hummed noncommittally in response. Fair enough, he supposed. And there was a good chance that Entreri didn't know the answer himself, especially with how vague the question had been.

They sat in silence for a moment, Drizzt wracking his brain for something to say. What did one say in a situation like this? Had anyone ever even been in this exact kind of situation before?

Then the assassin whispered possibly the most shocking thing Drizzt had ever heard.

“I'm sorry.”

“What was that?” Drizzt asked, sure that he must have misheard.

The man grit his teeth, staring daggers at his mead. “I have to apologise,” he eventually ground out, vaguely waving his hand. “For all of that.”

Drizzt was at a loss for words again.

He knew what the usual response to an apology was supposed to be. But was he supposed to actually forgive the man?

No.

He thought back to the everything that Entreri had alluded to. The kidnapping, maiming, murder- Drizzt wasn't sure it was something that could be forgiven.

It might have been years, and the man might have changed, but there was only so far his newfound empathy for Entreri could go.

Should he lie then? Pretend like everything was alright now? No. He couldn't do that to himself. And he doubted that Entreri would believe him anyway.

But he had to say something. The apology can't have come easy to the man.

“I acknowledge your apology.”

It didn't quite sound adequate, but it was the most honest thing he could have said.

The human huffed in response and left it at that.

They sat in silence for another moment, and when nothing else was forthcoming of the human, Drizzt asked, “Now what?”

“Hm. That's exactly what Jarlaxle asked me before we came here. ‘You're going to find Drizzt, and then what?’ I still don't know. I figured he was lying anyway. That you wouldn't be here.”

“Well, I am.”

“Hm.” The human was silent for a moment. “I should leave.”

The tavern’s front door had barely fallen shut behind the man when Drizzt heard someone talk to him outside. Based on what he had said just before leaving, Drizzt could make an educated guess on just who that may be, even if he himself wasn’t overly familiar with the voice.

“So?”

“You get to live.”

“Marvellous! Can I come inside and have a drink now?”

“We're leaving.”

“You're leaving. I'm sick of standing around in this snow. I won't go anywhere before I've warmed myself up by a fire.”

The voice got louder halfway through the sentence as the tavern door was pushed open from the outside.

“I'm leaving.”

“Artemis!”

The door fell shut again and Drizzt heard their footsteps rapidly move away.

[artemis-entreri]

Abbil No More

[[ One of the sweetest elements of The Sellswords trilogy is how Jarlaxle would refer to Artemis as, “my abbil”, more frequently than he would refer to him by name. The charm of this moniker comes from both the fact that it is an exclusive nickname that Jarlaxle uses, and that it’s in Jarlaxle’s native tongue. As such, the gesture of adopting and almost exclusively using “my abbil” for Artemis contributes a lot to the sense of intimacy of their relationship, however one might interpret it.

It occurred to me that we haven’t seen Jarlaxle call Artemis “my abbil” for a long time, nor have we seen the word, “abbil”, at all for a while. I didn’t realize how long it’s been until I went through all the books from Glacier’s Edge back to The Companions. Abbil does not appear at all in any of the 12 books except for one occurrence in Starlight Enclave:

It is sad that Jarlaxle no longer addresses Artemis as, “my abbil”, but it’s sadder that he’s not addressing anyone with it, not Zaknafein nor Kimmuriel either. He certainly could, and would be within his rights to address any of them as, “my abbil”, but it’s as though the phrase has been totally purged from his brain. 

I can only make conjectures as to why this has happened. Perhaps the level of unintended male/male intimacy when that phrase was being employed was too much for RAS. Perhaps there’s some overarching plot involving Jarlaxle distancing himself from other characters that we’ve yet to see. Perhaps Jarlaxle is experiencing PTSD from how his affections were so rejected the last time that he regularly used that phrase. Or perhaps RAS simply forgot the existence of the phrase despite the many times he wrote “my abbil” during The Sellswords. 

Whatever the reason, there’s been a growing sense of distance and artificiality between the characters with each new book, and the absence of terms of endearment/familiarity only furthers those rifts. ]]

[demonwebs]

&. 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐨 𝐱 𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬.

↳ @musezieren : ❛ truth is, i didn’t expect to get this attached to you. ❜ from Sirius

people were always trying to connect to him . but he always slipped away . there is nothing tangible to hold onto , not really . he was just a whisper in the wind , a shadow lurking in empty corners , a ghost roaming haunted corridors . all he could do was linger , for awhile , for a moment . but for all of the throats his blade had slit , all the mouths he'd kissed , they're not seen his face , not really . he was so good at disappearing inside himself , the best even --- he could be anyone , anything for a short while . but sirius made it so tempting to want to be himself .

though habit begs him to , the drow can't bring himself to say something witty , or funny , or dimissive . his ruby eyes grow lidded , heavy with veiled emotion .

❝ don't go drifting off too far into your own thoughts , mm ? ❞ somewhere he can't reach , where his words can't soothe ; it's no order , his lacks the edge to bark the edge to bark demands tonight , it asks as a gentle request . gentle as they come , a brush of a feather against the cheek . ❝ ... we need you here . with us . ❞ what vhaal'krin says is rarely what he means . like now . what he means to say , what he wants to say , is : ' i need you here . with me . ' but it's just not fair , is it ? because as much as he wants to , he can't reassure him , can't coo promises into his ears that he's not going anywhere . and he wants to be fair . against every fiber of his being , he wants to be gentle , and kind . so he says the next best thing . and what goes unspoken goes on to linger between them like a ghost , as he allows himself a fleeting moment of boldness , the pad of his thumb grazing the tiefling's chin , nearly pleading in it's docility . ❝ please , abbil . ❞

[des-no9]

Tav question game: 1,2,9 for Van and 16 for both her and Azz'ava!

1- what do they smell like at their freshest? (and/or after a tenday. your choice) Freshest: Vanquish smells like spices, warmth. A touch of sweetness. Cloves and cinnamon, caramel, tea leaves. And maybe old books too. Like an apothecary, messy with its spices, ingredients open, scattered. Old books nearby with old recipes.

After a tenday: Like a burnt out fire. Singed paper, hair. Tinged with sweat and the tang of blood.

2- what would their blood taste like to vampires?

I like to HC Vanquish's physiology is affected a lot by her patron(s) and their influence literally bleeds out from her.

I feel like....maybe her blood would hurt if you had lots of it. Sore on the tongue, tart, a bit like to me drinking lots of aniseed flavour things. Like...it's so saturated by 1: the voidfire from Y'chak that sunk underneath her skin after she was burned, residuals of it running through her veins because he is a huge part of why she's pseudo-immortal. 2: her powers from Caiphon and that she is a sliver of this terrifying Far Realms being. 3: her tiefling blood i think runs hotter than normal.

3- if they had to be put in a “get along shirt” with a companion, who would it be?

A couple for various reasons lol.

Astarion: they are quite similar people in a lot of ways, and Vanquish kind of...clashes with him a lot. If they ever got together they'd definitely be the 'I can make them worse' and they would lol. They have a lot of shared trauma and they both aren't the nicest of people. Sometimes they get on swimmingly. Other times they frustrate the fuck out of each other.

Wyll: Vanquish finds his ethos and views and kindness....difficult. In the way that she's not used to it. Kindess and chivalry had to be hard earned for Vanquish. What's the catch? Why do you care why? This is very much a Vanquish problem. I think Wyll would be patient with her. But she's also quite an arsehole about "why the fuck did you pact with a devil? absolute L of a move." Definitely thinks she's the superior Warlock lmao.

16 - what’s the description of their underwear in the inventory menu?

Vanquish- Pre-Voss: Made of Menzoberrazan silk, these are well worn, but still beautiful. The remnants of the word 'abbil' is embroidered on one side, most of the thread picked clean.

Post-getting together with Voss: A custom harness made of leather from an animal Kith'rak Voss killed himself, there is an inscription of tir'su along the straps on the lower half that reads "htaz'i vo z'varc". Classy.

Azzichka- During game: Only the best for an Inquisitor of Vlaakith, these are of material not natural to this plane, with tiny precious gems embroidered into the bands. One white, one sky blue.

Post-game: Black silk and acquired from a tailor in Baldur's Gate, there is little left to the imagination with these. Maybe istik do have good taste.

[thespacelizard]

he keeps me warm

@fluffbruary day 9, and we finally get a little spicy with it. more Jarlaxle/Artemis, in some format of sequel to day 7. Up as always on AO3 here!

In which Artemis helps Jarlaxle warm up.

“Your weather continues to delight and amaze.”

The two of them dripped, frozen and sodden, into the inn. Artemis clomped towards the stairs. “It is not my weather.”

The sky had opened up halfway back to town, and had not let up in the hours since. The only consolation was that at least he hadn’t had to lug a soggy corpse through the downpour. Say what you liked about Jarlaxle’s arsenal of trinkets, magical storage spaces were, Artemis was willing to concede, fairly useful.

“It certainly isn’t mine.” Jarlaxle removed his hat and gazed forlornly at the pathetic droop of the soaked feather. “We should go south again.”

“We are south.”

“Further south.”

Jarlaxle crossed to the fire and fiddled with something unseen for a moment—with a click and a snap, the hearth erupted into a crackling blaze. The welcome warmth only made the cling of Artemis’ clothes more intolerable. He toed off his boots and set them by the fire, then quickly began extricating himself from the rest of his soaked ensemble. He could feel Jarlaxle watching him, and refused to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging it.

He could not ignore it when the drow put still-damp arms around his waist. A horribly wet shirt slid against his back—Jarlaxle had not yet undressed.

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“In this circumstance, Artemis,” Jarlaxle kissed his spine, “you ought to say something like ‘oh, Jarlaxle, you will surely catch your death, let us get you out of those wet clothes.’”

Artemis sighed. “If you want sex, just ask for it.”

“And where would be the fun in that, abbil?”

Jarlaxle kissed along the curve of his shoulder-blade, nipped the back of his bicep—the drag of wet fabric as he pressed closer was unbearably awful. Artemis turned and caught the drow up, held his idiotic grin of a partner at arm’s length. Jarlaxle was shivering.

“If you give yourself some sort of illness from playing stupid games, do not expect me to nurse you back to health.” He roughly unfastened Jarlaxle’s shirt, cut off his smart remark with a hard look. “The second you start sneezing I am throwing you at the nearest cleric and leaving you there.”

“You say the sweetest things.”

Out of his clothes and seated before the fire, Jarlaxle still shivered in intervals. Artemis grabbed a blanket and tossed it over him, huffing an inward laugh at his scramble to arrange it in a more dignified fashion. When he was done, he held up the edge and cocked his head—Artemis sighed and went to join him. Jarlaxle pressed close with a contented hum.

After a moment he shivered again, full-body exaggerated.

“You are not still cold.”

“I am. You should warm me up before I perish from it.”

“If you perish from it, my life becomes exponentially less complicated.”

“That is a lot of words for ‘boring.’”

“You are a lot of words for ‘annoying.’”

Jarlaxle climbed into his lap and pushed his still-damp hair back from his forehead. Clever hands traced his face; brow, cheeks, chin. A thumb brushed over his lips. “Warm me up, Artemis.”

Artemis kissed him. He wound up on his back shortly thereafter, Jarlaxle atop him, the blanket tangled over their legs and not much else. The fire’s flicker warmed their skin—wandering hands and hungry mouths warmed the rest. Jarlaxle extricated lube from his hat and slid onto him with a pleased exhale. Artemis held his waist, traced the moving line of his back with a palm. They moved slow, indulgent in the fireshadow that merged them at every junction.

Jarlaxle made a noise at his ear, one he knew well enough by now—and too often they had done this, that he knew it well enough. Artemis held him closer. Jarlaxle took his hand and put it between them, to stroke and draw more well-known sounds from him until he finished with a lip-bitten cry and pressed his face to Artemis’ neck. He then deemed it necessary to whisper a litany of ridiculous filth until Artemis was forced to kiss him again to shut him up, gripping Jarlaxle’s hip tightly as he came.

The heavy drum of rain showed no sign of letting up, and the wind had grown shrill enough to whine through a crack in the window. Jarlaxle did not move off him, just lay sprawled over him as they both caught their breath, a weight more familiar than he had any right to be.

“Get off me so I can set the traps.”

“You stabbed the only threat in a five mile radius yesterday.”

“Jarlaxle—”

“Not moving,” Jarlaxle mumbled. “Kill me or learn to live with it.”

Artemis lay his arm across Jarlaxle’s back. For now, here in the warmth, he supposed he’d live with it.

[jaskwritesthings]

Shadowgast daemon au?

tags: alternate universe - dark materials, canon complaint, suggested canon torture

(ao3)

notes: abbil = trusted, friend

“Frumpkin is a familiar, yes?” Essek asked, the question had been bubbling under the surface for quite some time and there was something about the warm low light of the tower library that allowed space for bravery to blossom. Usually it manifested in sitting closer to Caleb or reaching out for the warmth of his touch. Today it appeared it was a less pleasurable pursuit that had won out.

Caleb stilled, unnaturally so, “Ja.”

“Your daemon…” Essek trailed off, unsure how to proceed. There were certain things you just didn’t talk about in polite society, kept for the dark corners and hushed over near empty wine glasses with disgust. The persistent rumour of the Empire’s severing of daemon’s kept many a drow child awake at night but Essek had only learned the truth of it in his interactions with the Cerberus Assembly. He suspected Caleb had been subjected to such a horror but he hoped, he prayed, that Caleb would take this opportunity to trust him with his daemon.

Caleb didn’t move but there was a subtle shift in him that froze Essek’s heart. He already knew the answer when Caleb responded cooly, “Long gone.”

“I’m sorry Caleb,” Essek mumbled, the words feeling far too small to encompass the sorrow he felt for his partner.

“Ja, me too,” Caleb said just as emptily. The cold words plastering over the cracks that Caleb was trying to conceal. Essek could still see them, wished he could soothe them somehow.

“Does it hurt still?” He asked and Caleb closed the book he’d been studying softly. He took a deep breath, steadying himself. Still so much of their relationship was trepidation, feeling out the boundaries and the pit falls and trying so hard not to snap like a cornered animal when one was stumbled upon. Essek knew he was pushing at Caleb’s defences but if he didn’t he wouldn’t know how to help him and he so badly wanted to help him.

“Like a phantom limb,” he admitted thickly.

“Is there any way I can help?”

Caleb smiled weakly, “I am well.”

Essek frowned, suddenly understanding Beauregard’s urge to violence as a sign of affection, “And I would help ease any pain you carry Caleb Widogast.” He stated fiercely and it seemed to catch the Empire wizard off guard.

“Touching another's daemon can provide comfort,” Caleb offered quietly after a few moments of shocked silence.

“The Nein?”

“Ja they have allowed it but it is not always comfortable for them.”

Essek could imagine, Verin had always been free with his touch as a child and Essek had not always welcomed it. Found it suffocating at times and even painful on occasion, the vulnerability of it left Essek feeling far too exposed. He wished he’d been more accepting of it, perhaps it would have made reaching out to Caleb and the others far easier. He struggled, the tug of war between begging for comfort and denying to protect himself, a constant battle held in his chest, often stealing his breath.

And as much as every fibre of his being rebelled at the idea of revealing such a weak spot, he wanted to help Caleb more. An urge that had grown stronger the more time they spent together. Something that leaked out into every aspect of his life like an invasion of weeds aided by Caduceus’ gentle coaxing across a barren wasteland.

“Would you like to hold Abbil?”

Caleb paused, blinking in confusion, “Abbil?”

Essek didn’t blame him, as much as there were rumours around the empire, there was plenty of propaganda against the dynasty. Propaganda they’d used to their advantage. It wasn’t well known beyond the borders that those of the dynasty, just as their counterparts in the empire, had daemons. Many were under the misconception that Drow especially had none. And Essek’s own daemon was well hidden at all times.

This would be the first time he’d admitted to having, let alone naming, his daemon to an outsider. He trusted Caleb but that didn’t stop the urge to take back his words, to deny and distract. Abbil rubbed one of her furry legs along the back of his neck comfortingly before she took the initiative as usual and poked her way out from under his collar, blinking her many big black eyes at Caleb.

“If your cat tries anything I’m sending him back to the Fey wild,” the tarantula grumbled, already scuttling across the back of the sofa to Caleb.

Caleb chuckled, the sound thick with emotion that Essek wouldn’t name or draw attention to for Caleb’s own dignity. The first touch of one of Abbil’s legs against Caleb’s neck sent an electric shiver down Essek’s spine. Something he couldn’t even attempt to hide.

“Uncomfortable?” Caleb asked with a sad smile, clearly expecting Essek to take Abbil back.

“Unexpected,” Essek settled on, trying to ignore the heat high in his cheeks and low in his belly. It reminded Essek of the time Caleb’s hand had accidentally landed high on his thigh as he ranted about a newly released thesis in transmutation. Essek could recall nothing of that discussion but he could tell you in great detail how warm Caleb’s hand was, the way he squeezed his thigh whenever his temper rose as though to anchor himself from standing and pacing. Essek would never admit to how badly he wanted Caleb to squeeze enough to leave a mark, leaving little fingerprints of deep purple for him to admire later. He hadn't, of course, always gentle to a maddening degree with him, but the desire had lingered long afterwards and had taken several days to shake.

“You do not have to -“

“Unexpected but not uncomfortable,” Essek quickly cut off, least Caleb martyr himself by moving away from Abbil and taking the delightful crackling feeling with him.

“No offence mein schatz but you do not look comfortable,” Caleb argued.

“It is not uncomfortable in the way you think…” Essek mumbled embarrassed, shifting in his seat to alleviate certain frictions…or perhaps heighten them.

“How…oh,” Caleb’s cheeks darkened quickly.

“Quite,” Essek cleared his throat.

“Idiots,” Abbil chastised as she burrowed under Caleb’s collar.

[xdepthsofwinterx]

Contingency Plans {w/t oeskathine}}

“You realise your both monumental figures in this quest, right?” Dhana popped another toffee into her mouth, the sugary sweetness overwhelming her taste buds.

“Yeah.”

“And that you have to fight, sleep and survive in close quarters during dire situations,” she lifted her legs, coming to lean her elbows across her knees. Nathyrra remained cross-legged beside her.

“Yes.”

“And by sleeping with Valen, you could threaten the stability of this entire mission,” the drow punctuated her words with a sharp finger in Dhana’s arm, forcing the mage to look at her, “A mission that is more important than you, us, possibly this entire realm.”

It seemed the assassin was finally getting through to her. Brows furrowed; dark eyes suitably troubled.

“Of course…you sound like him, y’know,” lips curled in mild amusement.

“Nowhere near as gloomy of course, but Valen is right to be as serious as he is. We are all putting our necks on the line for this to succeed.”

Good, guilt was descending. But she wasn’t through.

“And one more thing,” sepia eyes darted from the drow to the ground, “If you hurt him, I will personally carve your heart out and force feed it to you.”

A hint of malice, a large dollop of protectiveness and a smidge of humour. Valen was one of her closest friends after all, and he had been through a lot. He did not need a randy human fucking about with his heart.

Nathyrra watched Dhana swallow with difficulty, smirking ominously before reaching across their shared blanket and plucking up another silvery wrapped toffee.

Silence descended between them for some time, contemplative and somewhat heavy. The silvery haired assassin let it. Dhana’s request was simple enough, but she wanted to make it painfully clear, she was utterly serious.

It seemed her plan had worked, the mage resurfacing from her thoughts at last. For all her teasing, Dhana was quite a brooder herself.

“I know I’ve told you how…free I can be with my affections, but, I respect him too much to do that to him.”

“Have you told him that?” Dhana flinched, confirming Nathyrra’s suspicions.

“N-No, but things escalated far more quickly than….hmm, I really should speak to him at some point.”

“Preferably before the battle?” the mage sighed and nodded virulently. With a whine, she dove callous hands into her hair and scruffed it up with frustration.

“Damn my need for horned booty!”

There was a heavy pause, both women slowly catching each other’s eye. Laughter erupted, both parts exasperation and understanding. It slowly dissipated into very feminine giggling – for which both parties were glad they had retreated to the privacy of Dhana’s quarters.

“Don’t worry ‘yrra, I will hurt myself before hurting Valen. You have my word.”

The smile that Dhana received made her knees and heart exceedingly weak. If Nathyrra hadn’t already spoken in favour of males, Dhana would have tried her luck there too. But again, she valued the gorgeous assassin too much.

“You have my thanks, abbil. I owe him more than he knows.”

Dhana leaned her head back against the plush covers upon her bed. She was lucky to have founded such good connections with Valen and Nathyrra. Both kept her sane. And in return, she froze or burned their enemies alive, and cracked off the odd inappropriate joke. Perhaps not the most equivalent of exchanges, but they seem satisfied.

“So, regarding this contraceptive of yours?”

Nathyrra hummed, reaching for her pack. When the mage had enquired, she had spilt her lunch all over the table. Thankfully the attendees on duty hadn’t batted an eyelid, swooping in to tidy away the remnants.

“Let’s see…”

[happyorogeny]

The Investment

(~2000 words)(Jarlaxle, Artemis Enteri, background drow)(tw racism, xenophobia, drow-typical sexism, needle mention, torture mention.)

Jarlaxle hadn’t managed to survive so long and build the Underdarks most notorious mercenary organisation by allowing preventable social problems to grow underfoot. He had long ago realised that the High Priestesses didn’t want drow to cooperate. Particularly not the men. Cooperation led to the construction of social units beyond the family, led to power and influence that they couldn’t directly control.

Artemis and his men were not getting along.

That was to be expected. In a way he had put a great burden on his poor abbil, to show his drow how an unbroken human behaved and acted, that he was their match in many ways. To have them learn to doubt. If humans weren’t necessarily so weak and inferior, what else in their world was worth questioning?

But unfortunately, such change took time. Not everyone was quite as adaptable as Jarlaxle was, as he had had to be. Change felt like chaos and so they resisted it. So much of drow society and philosophy rested on the concept of solidity and tradition. Indeed, hadn’t they been thrown out of the feywild because they’d demanded a measure of continuity and stability from Corellon? Hadn’t they had to carve themselves a place in this world instead? Yes indeed, drow had never had anything, had never been given anything aside from what they could take for themselves by force. If they allowed chaos to fester, if they allowed change and the instability that came with it, they would be destroyed.

Jarlaxle had sat through such sermons often, listened to young priestesses preaching to passersby in the low city. He wondered about it in idle moments. All good lies had truth in them. Just how much and just what parts, now, that was the whole trick of it.

Let them have their tricks, for he had his own. Men didn’t run houses, except that the Bregan D’aerthe were basically a house and everyone knew it. Folk stepping outside their role in society would be struck down, except that he hadn’t been yet. Drow didn’t work with lesser races, except now Artemis was here and the match of half his men.

Change took time. Time ought to be the one thing an elf had in abundance, but that didn’t hold true for drow and especially not for him. Change was painful, particularly for those who brought it. Including Artemis, who didn’t seem to realise quite how much of a marvel he was down here. Who would probably stab him on the spot if Jarlaxle suggested that he was an ambassador for the betterment of all mankind.  

And so he was delighted to see his office door had been tampered with. Very subtle work, too. Artemis had broken in and taken the earring. Wonderful!

He set his hat on the back of his chair and settled down into his chair, stretching out his back with a satisfying pop. The day had been tiresome indeed. Payment negotiations were tedious and House Matrons were very inclined to try and shortchange him. He had been sure to make friends with the lower men of the house, and one of them was close with the daughter-treasurer. The house had the money. They didn’t always pay willingly, but they did pay. Eventually. Not the clients he would have chosen, but work had been slow of late.

That led to trouble. Many of his men held other jobs- couriers, bodyguards, entertainers and consorts- and he had bade his battlemasters hold extra training sessions. But even with that the Bregan D’aerthe had an excess of free time on their hands. That was always dangerous. His men made their own entertainment and so many of them were stunted by their upbringing. A drow, frustrated and bored, would take out their annoyance on whomever they perceived to be lower than them. It caused issues with social cohesion, wearing away the tentative bonds forming amongst his men. It lead to splinter groups and rival mercenary factions. He would not have it, not when he had worked so hard to bring near every sellsword in the Underdark under his control.

And poor Artemis, well. Drow society marinated its citizens in superiority and xenophobia. They couldn’t conceive of a human amongst them that wasn’t a slave. Never mind one that outstripped them in many areas, one that Jarlaxle valued as much as he did anyone else.

And so it had become a common and mean-spirited game to needle Artemis, speaking around him in rapid-fire undercommon that he couldn’t quite understand, throwing stones and darts into whatever little crevice he slept in, poking fun at the size and shape of his ears.

Little cruelties that built into something dangerous. Last week, a group of five had decided to flush him out of his usual haunts, the abandoned rooms and quiet corridors. It had taken them half a day, but by sheer force of numbers they had succeeded in bullying him out into the main thoroughfares and cornering him in a side room. Jarlaxle wasn’t quite sure what they had ultimately intended. It would mean very little to them, to decide to kill some upstart human. Alternately, they might well have decided that frightening him was enough.

What they had intended didn’t matter. Finding himself backed into a corner and outnumbered, Artemis had killed three of them and taken two very dangerous injuries. Only the intervention of some older mercenaries, irritated by the noise, had prevented things taking an even more lethal turn. The onlooking crowd had considered this great amusement by all accounts, taking bets on who they thought likely to win.

Artemis had promptly caused great financial loss for many of them by hunting down one of his tormenters and killing him in the tunnels. The fifth bully, being semi-sensible, had taken a reconnaissance mission to the surface that would render him unreachable for several months.

His men had killed each other before. Of course they had. But over time, over hard won experience he found the bulk of such deaths to be preventable. But he preferred to reduce the chances. Much as Artemis was an interesting whittling mechanism for the stupid amongst them, it seemed a time-consuming strategy and a waste of a valuable asset.

And it wore a person down, to be considered so low and worthless despite all their skill and all their cleverness. Artemis didnt care what folk thought of him- he couldnt afford to- but been surrounded by constant dismissal...well. Jarlaxle remembered it. Remembered being an amusement at best.

Thus he had presented Artemis with a darksight earring, framing it as a strict investment on his own part. Artemis was already skilled enough in surveillance and stealth to match and even outstrip some of the drow. An aid to allow him to see as they did was the next logical step. Why have one of his better operatives run around half blind?

Better yet, it would stop a repeat incindent. Artemis had already killed those who irritated him. Now that he could see them coming and had proved himself almost drow-like in his ferocity, all but the most hostile conservatives would be disinclined to actively attack him. After all, that greater shame than to be killed by a human?

Artemis had refused point blank to take it. Much as Jarlaxle had expected. Rewards and gifts were all too often vectors of control and obligation. And so the box and its contents had remained on carved edge of Jarlaxle’s ironwood bureau, small and dark and velvet, while Artemis decided what to do. All of it took time, time where Jarlaxle bustled around the undercity and sent out his more socially inclined underlings in search of work. He had no intention whatsoever of allowing these violent delights to grow entirely out of his control.

And why not invest in a new lock in the meantime? Something large and ominous and magically warded. Something that looked like a headache to break. Something that looked like a challenge. Jarlaxle himself, had he been confronted with such a thing, would have deemed lockpicking a waste of time and gone in through the nearest window.

But Artemis was clearly pining for an opportunity to challenge himself, perhaps remind himself that the drow were wrong about him. He had spent the last ten days studying the new lock from a distance, sitting proudly on the fungalwood door into his office. Fungalwood doors could be charmed to swallow up the lock if they sensed an intruder trying to pick their way in. Drow didn’t tend to have wooden furnishings. Trees were rare in the darkness. Only the blood orchards bore any kind of wood at all, and all of that tended to stain a nasty shade of brown over time. Instead they grew their furniture from larger, more solid variations of the very same mushrooms that made up their everyday diet.

Artemis was clearly very light of touch, for the edge of his desk was completely empty. He considered returning the lock to its creator, telling her that an untrained human had broken through in under five hours. The thought of her expression made him grin.

Quick footsteps in the hallway outside had him palming a dagger, but it was only Scrap that appeared in his doorway. A young courier with long white hair twisted into a braid, a group of Jarlaxle’s street runners had discovered him half-dead in the gutters of the lower city and immediately dragged him back to Jarlaxle, proud of their find. Jarlaxle suspected the commoner had been grabbed off the streets by some noble house, to teach their young the finer arts of torture. He hadn’t spoken aloud since his recovery and communicated entirely in handspeak.

“Artemis is bleeding.” He was one of the few to refer to the human by name. “He did something to his ear with a needle and an icecube.”

Overworlders had a haphazard approach to many things, including piercings. The icecube was a traditional method from what Jarlaxle understood, though his ears ached at the thought. He had been most careful with his earrings, so as not to lose any sensitivity.

“Come, tell me where your message-running brings you. Any hint of dueling matrons or a nice house war?” Message runners knew more about the politics of the underdark than folk tended to realise. And Jarlaxle could discern much from where messages went and how many there were and the various wards and runes placed upon them.

“But the human. Won’t he die?”

Oh, that old nonsense. It was taught to young drow that overworlders were so weak a single scratch would kill them. Which wasn’t strictly a lie, if the blade was poisoned. In all lies linger the truth.

“Don’t you worry about our human consultant, he’ll be up and about in no time.” He plucked a bottle of mushroom wine from under his desk. A passive-aggressive gift from a priestess who knew he hated the stuff. “Drink?”

Artemis took full advantage of his new skill in the following weeks, testing it against the utter darkness that prevailed in the upper reaches of the fortress and squinting down into the clawrift. Indeed it became a brief and much more light hearted game to try and sneak up on him out of the darkness, only to be spotted and cursed at. A human that could see like a drow! What fun.

“Artemis, darling. Please don’t teach my men to swear.”

And he couldn’t deny that he had been looking forwards to this moment just a little, as Artemis turned to scowl at him. Colour looked very different in darksight, and so did drow. Drow women tended towards complete inky darkness, pure and clear in its depth of colour. But the men often had a subtle sheen to them of midnight blue or deep indigo or a rich green. And Jarlaxle was lucky enough to show all three, purple highlights across his shoulders and collarbones, blue on his chest and stomach, green on his hands and legs.

Artemis had never quite seen him like this before, which was surely why he stared.

“You look like a magpie.”

“A magpie?” Whatever that was, it had to be a handsome creature indeed.

“A flashy bird that steals anything shiny and makes all manner of noise.”

“Why, they sound quite marvelous! Now, I have a fine little rescue mission here, two houses scrapping kidnapping one another’s family members for ransom...”

[snarknsass]

I'm a prompts virgin, having been lurky up until lately. But after that last Snippets piece, I'm doing this, and hopefully not being greedy with so many: Decorative Diversion Flaws Charged Tidal Tick

So I said I’d post half of these tonight and then post the other half once I finished them…

Except I oopsed and got swallowed by the inspiration bug.

So have them ALL! Muahahahahaha!

***

Decorative

A carefully precise sweep of the kohl-lined stick beneathhis eyes, timed to match the resigned sigh falling from his lips.

The things he did for Jarlaxle.  

He had better appreciate this. 

It had been years, nay, decades since he’d last lined hiseyes with kohl. And for what? To dress up for Jarlaxle because the fool drowinsisted on a ‘decorated Artemis’ for his ‘birthday’? 

His lips tugged downwards into a slight grimace when thepull of the drying henna on his skin reminded him that the kohl eyeliner wasn’tthe only thing he was doing for his idiot.  

He had really better appreciate this. 

The henna tattoos would fade eventually, but certainlynowhere near as quickly as he could wash off the kohl eyeliner.  

For once, please let the idiot not screw usover.

***

Diversion

If someone had told him he’d be mounting diversiontactics against a kitten named Floof, at any point in hislife, he’d have steered as far away from them as possible.  

And yet here they were.  

Jarlaxle was in the open door frame, returning fromshopping while he, the legendary assassin, flung himself across the room in anattempt to catch the escape-bound kitten making it’s mad dash for chaos.  

The damned kitten was likely just going to yowl to be letback in within a minute’s time, but his concern was more focused on the utterpandemonium the rascal had a penchant for causing.  

Last time she almost ended up in the innkeeper’s cookingpot. 

”Floof! No!”

***

Flaws

He clung to whichever praise Jarlaxle threw his way. 

It wasn’t something he showed, how much he appreciatedit, but that didn’t change how much he’d grown to rely on it.  

Which was weak.  

Funny, in its odd way he supposed. 

Worthless. Useless. Good-for-nothing. 

Filthy. 

No matter how much time passed he couldn’t ever silencethose words. 

Truths?  

Maybe. 

His flaws, that he believed them, all the same. 

At least until the next crumb of praise was thrown hisway.

***

Charged

The air was charged with tension.  

That was his first clue his assassin was in a foul mood. 

The second was the baleful glare levelled at him fromstorm-grey eyes. 

“Yes, abbil?” A tentative inquiry if he’d ever made one.  

“You ate my chocolate.”  

His chocolate? 

“It was on the table!” Lolth help him, the man wouldswear up and down he didn’t have a sweet tooth but deprive him of his sweetsand- 

A growl as the man’s hand dropped to his dagger, “It was mine!”

And you got one Artemis Entreri in a murderous mood.

***

Tidal

An expanse of gold as far as the eye could see, withdunes mimicking tidal waves from the desert’s counterpart. 

This was home.  

Hadalways been home. 

The soft, ever shifting cushion of sand beneath his body,heating him, was bliss.

So too was the burning heat of the sun so high above,casting its golden hue upon his sun-darkened skin. 

The soft breeze of wind floating across, playing with theodd loose strands of his hair, causing grains of sand to dance across his baretorso and arms- 

A sigh of bliss escaped him.  

Home. 

Finally home. 

Right up until the shadow cast by the bald peacockblocked some of that precious warmth from the sun. 

“Are we going in to the city or should I set up camp?” Amused,playful, an elegant white eyebrow arched as Jarlaxle gestured to the city not ahalf hour away from where he lay in the sand.  

Annoying bastard.

***

Tick

Tick. Tick. Tick. 

The banister over his head was ticking. 

From where he lay, pressed as flat to the floor as hecould manage, he could still hear each soft tick as themetal cooled. 

Yet another of Jarlaxle’s brilliant ideas gone wretchedlywrong. 

He held his breath, listening, listening for the cue thatmaybe, just maybe the red wyrm wasn’t facing this way anymore. Yet the roar ofthe flames from where they’d burned above him still rang in his ears, renderingit an exercise in futility.

He had no idea where Jarlaxle even was, except that without a doubt the drow had handilyescaped the dragon’s fire breath.  

Why dragons, Jarlaxle? Why? 

The treasure was never worth it, in his reasonable opinion.

[arrthurpendragon]

ENCHANTED SNEAK PEEK...maybe I’ll be able to write more...we shall see.

Abbi tumbled to the ground breathing rather heavily.  It wasn’t exactly enjoyable riding piggyback to The Flash through the city to an abandoned lot on the edge of town.  It was even less enjoyable when said speedster dropped you to the ground after said experience.  Although, if there was any consolation it was that Barry was starting to treat her normally again and not like a fragile piece of porcelain.  She stood up and dusted herself as a blonde woman in glasses ran toward her in a pair of high heels.

“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, you must be Abbi!” the woman squealed as she approached Abbi with great delight. “Barry’s told me so much about you.  I feel like I already know you” The woman paused for a moment and glanced at Barry.  “Although he conveniently left out the fact that you’re awake now!”

Barry grinned sheepishly and ran his fingers through his hair. “I suppose I should tell you that’s she’s a metahuman too?” he said.

The blonde woman’s eyes widened.  “DUDE!?! How could you not tell me that?  That’s kinda huge!” the woman said glaring at Barry before she turned and extended her hand toward Abbi. “I’m Felicity Smoak. It’s so nice to finally meet you!”  Abbi extended her hand with hesitation before Felicity took her hand and shook it.  Felicity grinned which almost immediately made Abbil warm up to her. Felicity smiled knowingly. “Now, you gotta tell me, are you a speedster like Barry too?”

“Not exactly,” Abbi said. “I’m not entirely sure what I am.  Some big scientific names that I can never remember.” She looked to Barry for help. He chuckled.

Barry elaborated. “Cisco’s been testing her and so far we’ve determined she has psionic energy manipulation, including levitation, psionic force-field generation, and telekinesis..”

“See, big words?” Abbi interrupted her brother with an annoyed expression.  That made Felicity laugh.  “Basically, I’m a freak.”

[artemis-entreri]

slndrthng replied to your post “Abbil No More”

#I mean the new books count Jarlaxle and Artemis as Drizzt's 'friends' right? #And thats a far cry from anything they used to be #But how Jarlaxle and Artemis used to be were friends #As friends as they could be #And while they technically have more friends now #None of them match the intimacy the duo had before #Iirc anyway #So maybe the word abbil for Jarlaxle is like one of those things #That remind you of someone you used to be close to #But don't really talk to or have such a close relationship anymore #But you still know/think of them anytime you come across that particular thing #Or phrase in this case #And you don't know what to do with yourself about that thing and those feelings #Because the person who invokes them #Isn't the same person anymore #And neither are you #But that familiarity still echoes in some hollow place inside #Never finding the home that no longer exists #I imagine for someone like Jarlaxle it'd be even worse #Considering where he's been and how he's lived #So when it comes to 'my abbil' he just doesn't have it in him #To use it for anyone else or even Artemis at this point #Because his 'abbil' might technically still exist #But the person he loved as his 'abbil' doesn't anymore #Idk maybe thats too deep for Bob #But its something to dwell on

[[ Hey there, sorry for responding in this awkward fashion, you bring up a lot of good points and I wanted to share them and respond to them. You’ve put a great spin on why Jarlaxle might not be calling Artemis “my abbil” currently. We’ll have to see how it pans out, and it is likely that all of this is too deep for RAS, but I’m glad for the potential even if it’s something RAS will never do anything with.

I feel that while both Artemis and Jarlaxle are now around more people that they can trust, their ability to trust those people have more to do with who the targets of that trust are rather than the abilities of Artemis and Jarlaxle to trust them. Despite their actions, the Companions of the Hall are supposed to be perfectly good guys without an ounce of possible badness in them, so much so that there’s something wrong with you if you don’t trust them. When Artemis and Jarlaxle were stuck together during The Sellswords, they started in a tense situation where they were surrounded by enemies and among everyone that they could choose, they were the each the least likely to kill the other one. They originally needed each other for survival, but ended up choosing to stay together for as long as they did. Pragmatically speaking, the two could’ve gone their own separate ways at the end of Servant of the Shard and not suffer at all for it, but they didn’t. Sure, part of that is due to RAS needing to keep them together to finish the trilogy, but them being together also made sense. Artemis’ lack of emotional availability was a given, but despite Jarlaxle’s jovial facade, he had plenty of his own walls too. The two connected in a way that wasn’t really comprehensible to either of them, but it was compelling enough to keep them together. What made that connection so compelling was that it was something really new to the both of them, but at the same time there was enough of the familiar ways of their old lives (bad as those ways might be) to keep them feeling some semblance of safe/secure. There’s a lot of intimacy in that process of discovering and understanding something new together, as well as the whole “first time” phenomenon. Based on what we see of them, they’re also apparently adrenaline junkies, and the adrenaline that comes from scary new interactions would’ve further fueled the appeal of sticking together.

The “betrayal” at Baldur’s Gate affected Artemis and Jarlaxle’s relationship dramatically, and yet we’re only ever shown a tiny bit of their reconciliation. It’s not clear if Artemis ever allowed Jarlaxle to tell him what really happened. Either way, Artemis was enslaved by the Netherese for around 72 years, in the process enduring traumas that ran deep enough for him to believe his own name to be something different altogether; we saw indication of this when Artemis thought himself to be at death’s door and instead of etching his real initials onto the bridge, he etched, “BtG”. 

Even if Artemis managed to completely disassociate blaming Jarlaxle with what he went through with the Netherese, Artemis’ experiences would’ve still rendered significant psychological damage onto him. I don’t know that it completely killed off parts of him, but it’d definitely be the case that things in his head got shifted around, some locked away for a very long time. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Jarlaxle calling him “my abbil” would be one of the things Artemis locked away for the sake of self-preservation. If he truly distrusted Jarlaxle, he wouldn’t have been so affected when it seemed like Jarlaxle had betrayed him. The hurt ran as deep as it did, manifesting as hatred as strong as it did, because fundamentally, Artemis believed that Jarlaxle wouldn’t have done that to him, and/or would’ve come back for him. With each decade that passed, the humiliation as a slave of the Netherese dug that ache deeper. It’s probable that on some level, Artemis hoped that Jarlaxle would’ve come back for him, but when Jarlaxle never did, the pain and traumas fueled each other to a breaking point. 

Artemis and Jarlaxle may be reconciled now, and there doesn’t seem to be any lack of trust between the two of them, but their relationship doesn’t feel as intimate nor as sincere. Their “friendship” feels more superficial, in part because both of them are keeping the same level of distance between themselves and all the characters who we’re told are their “friends”. Furthermore, rather than spending any meaningful time together, Artemis acts as Jarlaxle’s underling much of the time, at best an elite agent of Bregan D’aerthe. In other times that they’re together, there’s always other people, as though it’s too awkward for the two of them to be together alone. As a reader, viewing it all from the third person, it feels really stifled and stilted, which is in part due to us being given significantly less point of view exposé into their respective psyches. 

The characterizations in the recent books have frustrated me enough to kill a lot of inspiration for pondering what might be going in their heads, but your thoughts sparked that flame again. Jarlaxle, although not having always been kind, has always had a keen sense for what’s going on with someone else, a sort of empathy without the consideration that’s usually attached to that word. I’d think that even if he and Artemis never spoke of it, that Jarlaxle’s able to pick up on the depth of Artemis’ pain, and realize that Artemis would need a very long time before he’s able to hear, “my abbil”, again without it being a trigger. I like to consider a future where Artemis heals enough for them to broach the topic, and they walk the rest of the road to healing together. We’ve seen that Jarlaxle cares very deeply for those who he lets past his walls, so it wouldn’t be at all surprising that he carries deep wounds of his own when it comes to Artemis. In fact, we even see manifestations of this, with how hard he worked to free Artemis from petrification, how angry he was at Quenthel when he learned her role in the betrayal at Baldur’s Gate, and how long he mourned Artemis after he reasoned that Artemis had passed away due to a normal human lifespan. Jarlaxle probably has to bite his tongue before “my abbil” slips out, and if he ever literally does so, it still would hurt less than the emotional pang from not being able to say it to Artemis.

It is my hope that the two of them will find a way home. Not to the old home as that does indeed no longer exist, but to build a new one together, with the foundations of the old as a base, new shared experiences forging the pillars, and a roof woven tenuously but inexorably through hesitant steps back to where they’d left off and trepidaciously walking forward together again. Within the walls of such a house would be the words, “my abbil”, lauded joyously, whispered tenderly, perhaps even exclaimed angrily. A place where it’d be safe for them to feel love, be it platonic or romantic, a place where it’s secure to acknowledge and celebrate a bond unlike what they share with anyone else. ]]

[artemis-entreri]

"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".

[artemis-entreri]

"I wonder if Jarlaxle’s hat ever attracts hummingbirds in warm climes? Hmm. #feather hatted hummingdrow" (My revised comment inspired by your writing from today.) For fragile creatures the size of a toe, hummingbirds are impressively willing to buzz a human (or, presumably, an elf). Jarlaxle being swarmed by hummingbirds, or as one himself? Both mental images are haunting me now. Take art inspiration or just run away screaming from either or both of these as you will. *kicks captcha*

“Don’t you have enough magical trinkets already?” The human’s scowl dragged his face down so much that the disapproval in his flinty eyes could’ve spilled right out over his prominent cheekbones. 

“My abbil, there is no such thing as ‘enough’ magical trinkets,” the drow simply laughed and patted his companion on the shoulder with one hand, his other hand already going to the next item on the shelf.  

There they were, in an abandoned wizard’s tower, the mercenary moving about so casually that it was as though he already owned the place. However, each of the flamboyant figure’s steps only served to increase the assassin’s apprehension.

“Remind me again why we are here?” Entreri slapped his companion’s hand away from a desiccated bird skull. 

“I hardly need to, just as you hardly need to ask,” Jarlaxle replied, pointing at his featherless hat. 

The assassin blew out a frustrated sigh. “Yes, I can see that your feather is missing. I have accompanied you here to see to its replacement, not to partake in a tour.” Entreri swallowed his next words about the imprudence of ransacking a mage’s abode, for he knew it would just fall upon deaf ears.

“We are already here, it would be profligate to not fully explore the potential opportunities!”

Entreri snorted. “You’re one to talk about profligate.”

Jarlaxle simply smiled and tipped his hat. Entreri sighed and touched a hand to the black and red stitched gauntlet, not for the first time reassuring himself of its presence. 

“Aha!” The drow’s exclamation whirled the startled human about. Widened gray eyes immediately narrowed when they beheld a wand brandished in the ebony fingers.

“That’s not a feather,” the irritated man stated flatly.

“Your powers of observation are as potent as ever I see.”

Entreri resisted the urge to snatch the thin stick from the deceptively delicate obsidian digits. Stiffly, he forced himself to turn toward the ornate stand where the implement had rested.

“Wand of Avian Wonder,” the assassin read, his brow knitted. He glanced to his companion with a raised eyebrow.

Jarlaxle nodded excitedly. 

“This is what we came for? Not a replacement feather?”

“Why settle for one feather, when one could possess many?”

Realization dawned upon Entreri. “That was your plan all along?”

Jarlaxle nodded again.

“Truly, your greed knows no bounds.”

“I prefer to think of it as imagination.”

“You would so delude yourself.”

Jarlaxle simply laughed.

Shaking his head with resignation, the assassin diverted his attention to scanning his surroundings again. Not for the first time, his gaze alighted on each of the countless birds mounted within glass cases that lined the walls. Their unblinking, beady lifeless stares unsettled him.

“I’ve encountered a fair number of wizards,” Entreri mused aloud, “Yet none were quite so eccentric as this one.”

His companion was only half-listening, the drow’s elegant fingers tracing the length of the sleek wand as he turned it over and over. “My informants told me that he wasn’t born of this world. I know not the amount of truth in those tales, but they did speak of a word that is most strange, that the man used to refer to himself.”

Intrigued, Entreri turned and met the only set of eyes that shone with their own light.

“Ah, what was it… it was a word unlike any other that I’d heard before, said to mean ‘one who studies birds’…” The drow’s handsome features crinkled with concentration, his free hand rubbing his smooth chin. 

“Aha! Ornithologist!” Jarlaxle proudly declared with a flourish of the wand.

The assassin’s surprised blink lasted only a fraction of a heartbeat, but in that span of time, his companion, who stood clearly before him before his eyes had closed, was replaced by a… fog? when his eyes opened again. 

Entreri’s first reaction was that someone had drawn Charon’s Claw from his hip and called forth an ash wall, but when his hand went to the blade’s hilt, it found the familiar skull pommel secured in his weapons belt. However, before he even fully internalized this fact, a deafening cacophony of buzzing filled his ears. The assassin fought back the instinct to press his hands against his ears, forcing them to stay at his sides, ready to draw. 

The sight before him was nothing short of chaos, an ever-shifting veil of incessant buzzing, an outline that was more mutable than water. He’s briefly reminded of the swarms of spiders skittering the countless webs decorating Menzoberranzan, and the memory turned his skin to gooseflesh. 

Suddenly, flailing ebony arms poked out from either side of the strange fog, shattering the dark recollection. Further enhancing the now comedic effect were “particles” of the fog tumbling away, trailing with them puttering buzzes. Instinctively, the assassin’s eyes pored over the exposed ebony skin. Upon finding no punctures, scratches, or even so much of a mark, Entreri smiled, and nodded with grim satisfaction. He guessed his companion to be shouting something, but he couldn’t hear over the buzzing. Still, judging by the vigor of Jarlaxle’s flailing, Entreri guessed that the mercenary was, more or less, unharmed.

One of the fog particles landed on the floor and bounced away with a series of soft squeaks. After ascertaining that the Jarlaxle fog ball was still flailing with the appropriate amount of vitality, Entreri cautiously approached the particle, which was now feebly bouncing on the floor, emitting short bursts of buzzes. Although his keen eyes could easily discern the nature of the particle from his standing height, the assassin crouched to get a closer look, for he could scarcely believe what he saw. There, flopping about trying to get airborne again was a tiny, brightly-plumed bird, smaller than his thumb. 

A shift in his immediate surroundings called Entreri’s attention back to the Jarlaxle fog ball. The mercenary’s legs were visible now too, for he’d fallen to his hands and knees, blindly groping after the wand that was rolling away from him. The innumerable tiny brightly-plumed birds continued to swarm around the floundering figure.

Each time that Jarlaxle’s fingertips brushed against the wand, inevitably, one of the hoard of tiny birds would flit in startlement, sending the wand rolling away further. Although Entreri couldn’t hear Jarlaxle’s cries of dismay, he could imagine them well enough. The assassin watched the spectacle with a thin smile, nodding with satisfaction each time that the drow’s latest attempt to seize the wand was yet again foiled by one of the colorful critters. 

When Entreri finally kicked the wand into Jarlaxle’s grasping fingers, it was hardly because he’d grown bored of watching the mercenary receive his just reward. The sun was setting, and an eccentric wizard’s abode was among the least desirable places for him to spend the depth of night. He stepped back, predicting that his companion would call upon the magic of the wand again, and wanting no part in whatever chaos he was certain would ensue. 

The wand didn’t so much as flourish this time, but rather, flailed at the end of the drow’s fingertips. Faintly heard among the still cacophonous buzzing of the bird swarm, Entreri was able to make out the half-word “-thologist” being gasped out by a winded-sounding Jarlaxle. To the assassin’s surprise, no explosion of diatryma, rocs or axe beaks emerged. The horde of hummingbirds didn’t disappear either, but the fog began to disperse, each member simultaneously losing interest in the brightly-colored, sweet-scented “flower” that it’d been enveloping. 

The flock scattered so quickly, in so many different directions, that Entreri had to back away lest he was caught in the feathery pandemonium. Nonetheless, there were enough of them to obscure his vision, and only after many breaths later did he realize that Jarlaxle was not there. 

Entreri’s expression instantly drew grim. One hand thrust into the gauntlet and tore it lose from his side, dagger brandished in the other. Gloom had already began pervading the tower, and the assassin squinted into each dark corner in search of the entity that whisked away Jarlaxle with its foul magic. 

But there was nothing, no eyes met his except for the innumerable pairs of tiny, beady, lifeless ones, and no tingle of magical energy raised the hairs on the back of his neck. There was, in fact, no movement at all, except…

The thin wand rocked back and forth, having been caught in an indentation in the floor. And, next to the wand, was one of the tiny birds.

After one final look around to ascertain the sanctity of his surroundings, the assassin cautiously approached the wand and the bird. The small creature was the same kind as the others, but much more brightly plumed, and, even more curiously, possessed a pair of ruby eyes in lieu of the beady black ones of all the others.

Ruby eyes, Entreri realized with a start. He studied the bright purple of its head, wings and tail, taking in the iridescent quality of the rest of its plumage, which seemed to alternately present all the colors of a rainbow. All the while, the bird didn’t move, didn’t attempt to fly, only staring up at him. It almost looked… contrite?

“Jarlaxle?” Entreri chanced. The tiny bird nodded in a decidedly non-avian way.The assassin breathed a long, drawn-out sigh. He gingerly picked up the wand with his protected hand, and carefully set it back upon the stand from which the drow had lifted it. A buzz from behind him drew his gaze, and he almost felt pity for the transformed mercenary attempting, and spectacularly failing, to lift off.

“I know what you want me to do,” Entreri said, “But I’m not going to do it.”

More indignant buzzing sounded out from behind him.

“I could just leave you here,” the assassin’s tone turned icy, and the buzzing immediately stopped.

Shaking his head, Entreri sheathed his dagger and shed his gauntlet. He crouched before “Jarlaxle”. 

“Have you learned your lesson?”

The transformed drow didn’t nod this time, but remorse filled his ruby eyes. Not enough remorse, Entreri silently noted, for that ruby gaze darted to the wand resting back in its stand.

The assassin sighed helplessly and laid his hand on the floor, palm offered to his companion. “Come, let us be gone.”

Jarlaxle hopped into Entreri’s palm, surprising the man with how little a difference the tiny passenger made, even to his sharpened senses. A curious sensation filled the assassin’s chest, uneasiness coupled with inexplicable heat. Finding himself tensing, the perplexed man cleared his throat.

“Do inform me before you revert so that you don’t break my wrist.”

Entreri felt rather than saw Jarlaxle’s response. Something very thin and very delicate traced a groove in his palm, shooting shivers down his spine. 

“Not like that!” Entreri snapped, only to be rewarded with more involuntary shudders.

Although the assassin was certain he held his palm still despite the tremors of his body, Jarlaxle seemed to know regardless. The little bird did not relent, and between fighting the instinct to close his fist around the offender and resisting the flutters coursing through his body, Entreri was left quite breathless.

“Jarlaxle, I swear, if you do not stop, I will crush you,” Entreri warned, but he doubted that his shaky voice could even intimidate a hummingbird that wasn’t transformed from the most obnoxious of drow.

[[ The word, “ornithologist”, doesn’t actually exist in Common, for the etymology of the word is based in our Latin, rather than their Thorass. There exists across Faerûn as well as other parts of the Realms portals linking Toril to other worlds, including Earth. While an entity needs to be as powerful as Elminster to intentionally use these portals to traverse back and forth between the worlds, to find them purely by chance can happen to pretty much anyone from any of the connected worlds. It’s this facet of FR canon that inspired me to transport a hapless ornithologist from our world to theirs. Since the type of rigorous arcane studies engaged in by wizards is similar to the practices of scientists, I’d always figured that a scientist in our world would probably gravitate towards wizardry, should they find themselves inadvertently stuck in the Realms. As for what happened to the scientist-wizard and why he isn’t there to defend his tower against the interlopers, well, that’s up to your imagination. :P

The “Wand of Avian Wonder” is a modified version of the classic D&D item, Wand of Wonder. The idea is that the ornithologist, in his obsession with birds, modified it so that all of its effects became bird-themed. 

Jarlaxle’s never tiny and helpless. Even when he seems to be, he still manages to discover and exploit one of Artemis’ erogenous zones. >_> ]]

[artemis-entreri]

Sellswords Self-Care, Part 2 (complete version)

[[ So Tumblr ate a big chunk from my post last night. :’C I’ve deleted the original post. This should be the correct version of the story, assuming Tumblr behaves this time. ]]

"You reek!" said Jarlaxle, crinkling his nose and adopting an exaggerated expression of disgust.

"I do not." replied Artemis Entreri, standing (though it scarcely seemed possible) a tiny measure straighter than he already was.

"Perhaps you've been mired in your own filth for so long that you can no longer smell yourself."

"More likely that you douse yourself with so much perfume that you can't stand breathing in anything not similarly slathered."

Despite his complaints, the assassin allowed the mercenary to lead him down the busy city street. Jarlaxle was wearing his ridiculous human disguise again, and Entreri scowled at the dark, wavy strands that bounced against his companion's back. 

At least he's decently clad, Entreri thought to himself, and winced as his mind inevitably painted for him the selfsame scenario, but with Jarlaxle wearing only bandoliers and smallclothes again. The assassin suppressed a shudder and reflexively surveyed their surroundings, but found none of the pairs of eyes glued upon them from his imagined scenario.

Indeed, the citizens of Waterdeep were all busy tending to their own affairs. Merchants issued their final offers of unbelievable deals, couples hurried their children home, and street-lighters rushed from pole to pole. None spared more than a passing glance at the pair of "humans", even with the distinct scalawag appearance of the one in the lead. However, the handsome man was too finely-dressed and well-groomed for the self-respecting citizens to decry him as a pirate, and his companion was so nondescript that there was hardly any point to sparing the latter any attention. 

Nonetheless, Jarlaxle tipped his fabulous hat each time a wandering pair of eyes met his own, and by the time that they'd reached the bathhouse, Entreri had lost count of how many times the feather had bobbed on his companion's head. 

"I strongly wish not to do this," the assassin grumbled as the mercenary opened the door to the establishment and stepped inside.

"Fear not, my abbil, I shall be with you every heartbeat." Jarlaxle beamed as he held the door open.

"That's precisely why I fear." Entreri stepped past the threshold to find himself in a large antechamber. A large, empty antechamber. "Wait, where is everyone?"

"Everyone?" Jarlaxle quirked an eyebrow.

Entreri's brow furrowed as he looked around. The establishment was respectable, and he didn't dislike it, but because of its well-earned reputation, it was never without patrons, even in the early (or very late) hours of each day.

Yet, all the baskets that would normally hold the possessions of the patrons were empty and stood in neatly-stacked piles. All the towels were clean and similarly stacked, with not a single one discarded in the laundry hamper. 

The assassin covered his face with one hand. "You've bought the place?'

Jarlaxle's laughter lifted Entreri's eyes from underneath his fingers. "Of course not, my abbil! I am not that much of a spendthrift, nor am I imprudent enough to attract unwanted attention, given what I'm trying to accomplish in this city."

"Why is it so empty, then?"

"I rented it for the night!"

"I see. Yes, very frugal of you."

Barely had the quip left Entreri's lips did the assassin realize that the seeming spontaneity that led Jarlaxle to drag him out was actually yet another one of the drow's machinations. Entreri’s arm dropped back to his side, his chin snapping against his chest as his head hung in defeat. "You'd been planning this all along."

"But of course, my abbil! After all, are you not the one who does not believe in coincidence?"

"With you, there is never coincidence," Entreri intoned sarcastically.

Jarlaxle dipped into a quarter-bow. "You do flatter me so."

The assassin snatched the hat from atop Jarlaxle's lowered head and stalked to one of the doors leading to the next room. The transformed drow's skin instantly reverted to its usual ebony, the dark locks disappearing and the ridiculous mustache disintegrated from view just in time for him to catch the hat that the human tossed back at him. He set it upon his head again, but his appearance didn't change.

"Let's just get this over with," Entreri said as he entered the steamy main area, instantly regretting his words as he did. Floral scents saturated the thick air, but amidst the countless exotic notes was the distinct scent of lavender.

The assassin reflexively began to backpedal, but his progress was impeded by a pair of delicate yet strong hands set against his back. 

"No." The assassin's tone was firm, but it wasn't steel in his eyes when they gazed back at the mercenary. Jarlaxle resisted a chuckle and willed away the recollection of a girl he'd seen attempting to bathe her cat. His eyes had met with the feline's, and the resemblance between what he'd witnessed then and what he saw now was too striking to not remember.

"Don't be so stubborn," the drow chided as he pushed against his companion's back. Despite Entreri's best efforts to dig his heels in, the smooth floor was slick with moisture, and the human could find no purchase. 

"You will not release me unless I submit to your ridiculous request?" The assassin was trying to back-step now, to no avail. It hardly surprised him that Jarlaxle's boots locked against the floor while his did not.

"I will not." The mercenary finally stopped pushing, for they were but a few feet away from the largest basin in the room. Entreri felt the drow's arms encircle his neck before he saw the ebony digits work at his cloak clasp. 

The assassin slapped the delicate fingers away. "I can undress myself."

Jarlaxle touched his slapped hand to his heart and feigned a hurt look. "You do wound me so!"

Entreri snorted as he shed his cloak. "If a gentle blow so wounded you, perhaps you should rethink all of your ambitions and how frequently they put you -- put us -- in harm's way."

"Ah, but I simply wished to pamper you a little!"

"Jarlaxle does not 'pamper' anyone but himself, not without costs too high for my appetite," Entreri retorted with a mirthless chuckle. He kicked one boot off, then another, both shoes landing sequentially next to his cloak. His shirt followed, then his trousers, the last to land on the pile his weapons belt, both blades falling upon the makeshift cushion with naught but a soft "fumph". 

The mercenary shrugged, turned to retrieve two baskets, then pulled the assassin's shed attire into one of them. His naked companion was kneeling by the side of the largest basin, a palmful of water held up to his nose. The ruffling of cloth drew Entreri's attention, and when he glanced behind himself, he was surprised to see Jarlaxle disrobing as well.

"What are you doing?" Entreri scowled.

"Undressing," Jarlaxle answered without pause.

"I can see that!" 

Jarlaxle halted. The corners of his lips turned up impishly. "If you're going to watch, I could make it more interesting for you."

Entreri's head snapped forward, but not before allowing the drow to see a roll of his dark eyes. Entreri then focused his attention on lowering himself into the hot water, resisting the urge to plunge himself in over his head so that he didn't have to listen to his companion's musical laughter.

By the time that the assassin had fully immersed himself, the soothing hot water already chased the flamboyant mercenary's antics from his mind. Entreri hadn't realized how tense his muscles were until each fiber relaxed, the heat permeating his body and lifting the strain away. He closed his eyes and let his head rest against the edge of the basin, his throat as bared as his any of his victims' when he'd tugged their head back by the hair to press his dagger in. Yet, right then, Entreri didn't feel vulnerable so baring himself, and he lifted both arms onto the edge as well, so that his body could float within the calming water. He lingered there  for he knew not how many heartbeats.

A sudden abrasion against his forearm snapped the assassin’s eyes open, and he withdrew his arm with a mighty push away from the edge. From the center of the pool, Entreri glared at the mercenary with narrowed eyes, one hand rubbing the abraded forearm. Jarlaxle was kneeling on one knee, a porous object held in his hands. Although he pouted, merriment danced in his ruby eyes.

"What is that?" Entreri demanded, still rubbing his assaulted forearm.

Jarlaxle blinked and tilted his head. "This?" He held up the porous object.

"Yes."

"A luffa."

It was Entreri's turn to blink. "Is that not the name for a vegetable from the far east?"

Jarlaxle nodded. "Aye, this is one and the same."

Entreri held his forearm closer and squinted. "Why were you rubbing me with a vegetable?"

Jarlaxle chuckled and set the porous object down. He pulled a basket from around behind him, from which protruded other porous items, but these were items that Entreri recognized. Corals, lava stones, and other bathing implements that he'd seen in the Pashas' palaces. 

"I imagine that you're more familiar with these," Jarlaxle explained as he lifted a piece of coral, "But I've never been fond of them. Too coarse, suitable for a woodworker to rough-finish a beam perhaps? Hardly appropriate for cleansing skin!"

"It was good enough for Pashas and nobles."

"I am not a Pasha, nor am I a human noble. You are neither as well." The drow gestured at his companion to return to the edge. "Come. You'll like it, I promise."

"When you put it that way, it makes me even more uneasy," Entreri grumbled as he dubiously waded toward his companion. Upon reaching the mercenary's toes, the assassin was instantly filled with regret, for the drow, kneeling as he was at the edge, towered over the human from the elevation granted to him by his perch. As Entreri met his companion's eyes, his circumspection took in more details than he'd intended, and he wasn't able to stop himself from observing that Jarlaxle's skin was smoother and silkier than that of any of his former lovers.

And then, there were those ruby eyes. Deeper than blood, warmer than melted wax, more tantalizing than the richest velvet... the assassin felt lightheaded, and wondered if craning his neck back to look only at his companion's face was restricting the flow of blood through the rest of his body. Or, perhaps it was the blackness of the drow's skin, juxtaposing strongly against the light suffusing the room, causing his eyes to strain. 

"I'm getting out, it's too hot," Entreri decided aloud, and pushed himself up onto the landing next to his companion. He started heading for a stack of towels, but a dry hand on his arm stopped him. 

"Not yet," Jarlaxle bade.

"'Yet'?" Entreri echoed.

Jarlaxle nodded, smiling with an innocence that Entreri couldn't help but wonder if it was false. 

"What now?" Entreri asked, worn and exasperated.

"Sit," Jarlaxle instructed, pointing at the floor.

Entreri raised an eyebrow.

"Or you could stand, although that would make it more difficult for me."

"That makes me more inclined to stand." 

"Oh, do sit, my abbil. The quicker you do, the quicker we can be done with this."

Entreri lowered himself and crossed his legs. "What are you going to do?"

"Pamper you, of course!"

Entreri snorted. However, he only looked on curiously as Jarlaxle lifted the same arm that he'd been working on before, and began rubbing it with the luffa. Entreri wasn't surprised to see suds rise with each stroke, and although the friction made him want to retract his arm, the disciplined human held still, repeating Jarlaxle's promise to be done with it all as a calming mantra.

By the time that the mercenary had finished with the other arm, and was applying the vegetable to his back, Entreri was relaxed again. He didn't want to admit it, but the drow's ministrations felt good. Furthermore, his soak in the hot water allowed the scrubbing to lift the dirt, oils and dead skin that he knew had accumulated in his negligence, and the thorough cleansing made him feel almost as though he were being born anew. His tight-fitted leathers had begun to feel more than a little uncomfortable, just on the cusp of threatening to distract his perfect focus, but after this treatment, Entreri suspected that he wouldn't need to worry about the possibility of such a distraction for some time. 

A bucketful of water suddenly emptied over the assassin's head. It shocked him, but Entreri didn't grouse. The water was drawn from the basin next to them, and Entreri could guess readily enough why Jarlaxle was pouring bucketfuls of water over him. Even had he not, the return of his companion's attention to his back fully explained the situation.

"How did you think of using a vegetable as a bathing implement, Jarlaxle?" Entreri murmured, the softness of his voice surprising himself. 

"I learned it from another," the drow cooed, "One of the people who also employed it in delectable dishes. Versatile, is it not?"

Entreri chuckled. "I know how much you enjoy versatile things."

All that the assassin received in response was a soft push on his back. He understood his companion's meaning, and scooted to the edge of the pool. It took some time to lower himself in again, for despite the steamy air, he'd cooled, and had to readjust to the perpetual heat. 

Finally managing to re-submerge himself, Entreri lifted both arms onto the edge and began to tilt his head back to re-assume his earlier floating repose. He was surprised when the back of his head met with something higher than he'd expected, a soft something that wasn't the hard floor. The surprised man opened his eyes, only to find the ruby gaze capturing his own. He instantly understood from the way that his companion hovered over him, as well as the smooth incline pillowing his head, that Jarlaxle now knelt with both knees, and sat back upon his heels. 

"Jarlaxle..." Entreri began, but a soft "shhh" quieted him. One elegant ebony hand swept over the assassin's eyes, and Entreri obediently closed his eyelids. His lips parted when he felt ten delicate digits press lightly against his scalp, but their soothing massage stole the surprised utterances from his mouth. Jarlaxle's fingers worked in unison, deftly stroking, kneading, and -- Entreri realized -- scrubbing, as he felt foam grow out from underneath his companion's digits. 

The assassin's eyes fluttered, and he might've been embarrassed for it, if not for the last of the strain departing his body. He knew not for how long Jarlaxle worked at his scalp, but a regretful tinge pricked his chest when he felt his companion's fingers disengage from his short locks, which they'd pushed into disordered spikes. Feeling the foam beginning to spill over his forehead, Entreri moved to swipe it away before it got to his eyes, but a firm hand on his shoulder stopped him. The hand then moved to tug on his bicep, and Entreri compliantly lifted himself out of the pool. The suds had now drifted over his eyes, forcing the assassin to keep them closed, but Jarlaxle's hand was still on his arm, and he trusted in his own careful footing.

The assassin allowed himself to be led away from the main pool to where he guessed was one of the auxiliary pools. The scent of lavender was stronger here, but he paid it no mind, figuring it to be an effect of the concentration of smells in the edges of the room. Entreri was surprised to hear the splash as, he guessed, Jarlaxle entered the basin. He crouched, then sat, dipping his legs into the pool, and felt the drow take his hands. He allowed himself to be pulled in, for the heat of this pool was similar to that of his body. However, as he slipped in, his feet didn't immediately touch the bottom, and a momentary panic seized him as his head dipped below the surface. Entreri shoved Jarlaxle away as he beat his arms to bring his face to the air, and when he opened his eyes, again, they were again captured by his companion's ruby gaze, which was regarding him curiously.

"I did not know that you feared water," Jarlaxle quipped.

"I was surprised," Entreri admitted before realizing the words had escaped him, and his face heated, but not from the water.

Jarlaxle simply smiled, and caught a wooden bowl floating nearby. Entreri paddled quietly while Jarlaxle lifted scoop after scoop of water to rinse the last of the suds from his hair. 

His task completed, the mercenary leaned back and allowed himself to float away like a leaf on a quiet pond. Entreri regarded the drow curiously. 

"What are you doing now?"

"Replenishing my scent."

"Replenishing your scent," Entreri repeated quietly to himself. "Replenishing..."

The assassin's eyes grew wide. He sniffed at the water, but he couldn't discern whether the concentration of lavender originated from it, or hung in the air. Turning swiftly, Entreri kicked at the water fiercely until he was at the edge, then lifted himself out with a single swift heave. His expression filled with dismay as he sniffed his forearm, shook it off, then sniffed it again. 

"You'd planned this all along!" Entreri shouted at the languidly floating figure.

"Perhaps," the muffled voice responded.

Shaking his head with disbelief, the assassin stalked to the main pool. 

"Don't do it, you'll regret it," sing-songed the voice from across the room.

Entreri plunged his entire body into the hot water.

"I told you that you'd regret it. There's good reason for cooling baths, especially as autumn draws to a close," Jarlaxle chided as he pulled the warm wet cloth from Entreri's forehead and replaced it with another one that he'd just wrung the water from. The mercenary straightened his companion's covers, and not for the first time, for the shivering man kept bunching it up around his smallish form.

"Shut up," was all the assassin could manage from between his chattering teeth.

[[ I was apparently more tired than I thought I was when I posted this, to have completely missed that they went from fully clothed to naked without the in-between, when I’d written out the in-between. =_= Hopefully it all hangs together better now.

This is a companion piece to both the unnamed Sellsword Self-Care Part 1 and The Color Between the Lines. The plot of Waterdeep: Dragon Heist takes place 5 years after Timeless, and, if I’m being serious, I don’t see this level of comfort between Artemis and Jarlaxle in the current novel timeline, but I think it’s definitely plausible to get there in 5 years.

Otherwise, it’s just some warm, intimate, soft and whimsical Sellswords shenanigans. o: ]]

[artemis-entreri]

"Have you eaten?”

“Not yet,” the assassin replied automatically. Then, realizing that he’d been alone, that he should’ve still been alone, Entreri lifted his head just enough that his heavy-lidded eyes could behold the colorfully-clad drow.

He sighed and let his head drop back onto his arms. Although he’d never admit it out loud, the exhausted man was glad that it wasn’t any other voice, for he wasn’t sure that he’d had it in him to snap his head up in time.

“How’d you get in here?” Entreri asked, his voice muffled by his arms. A spice-tinged floral aroma tickled his nose, and he peeked over his arms to behold a ruby-red gaze appraising his own.

“What?” the assassin sighed wearily.

“Answering uninhibitedly, asking obvious questions, general lowered situational awareness...  what’s gotten into you, my abbil?” Jarlaxle tsked.

Entreri groaned and buried his eyes in his arms again, his temple beginning to throb. “Go away.”

The assassin wasn’t surprised to hear the scrape of another chair being pulled up to the table, or the shoving of his arms to the very edge of it until he could just barely still balance his head on top of them. Breathing another deep sigh, he began to gather the scant bit of energy he’d conserved from his brief repose to confront his uninvited guest, when a different smell seized him.

“What--?” the perplexed man looked up, and his vision was immediately obscured by steam. He didn’t think to complain though, for the steam was accompanied by an intoxicating scent, so rich that it energized his limbs far more than his respite did. Entreri pushed himself up to better behold the extravaganza unfolding before his eyes, and as soon as his arms cleared the table, a plate bearing a handsomely roasted leg of boar was pushed to where his head had been a moment before.

“Eat,” his companion ordered, and the assassin didn’t protest. Not bothering to even look at the fork and knife that the drow had set down, Entreri grabbed a protruding piece of bone and tore off a hefty chunk.

The drow watched the crude display with a disapproving frown, but the human just met his gaze and continued to rip off pieces with his teeth. 

“At least make sure you’re getting a balanced meal,” Jarlaxle chided as he reached for the savaged and now much less handsome-looking meat. Before he could pull the plate away even a little, the assassin snapped a hand onto it, glaring at the drow. It wasn’t the dangerous man’s usual deadly glare however, for it reflected the dancing glitter in those ruby eyes that Jarlaxle rolled at him.

The mercenary heaved a great exasperated sigh and pushed a plate of green stuff towards the assassin. That took up the last of the space on his side of the small table. 

“Ah, my abbil, why do you always choose to live in such ignoble places?” Jarlaxle lamented as he stood, lifting a bread from the basket that he’d also procured. Circling to his companion’s side, he started to poke the side of Entreri’s face with the bread, but stopped, and instead sniffed. 

And sniffed. 

And sniffed. 

And continued to sniff while circling the assassin like a hummingbird attacking a delectable flower until Entreri could no longer ignore him.

“What is it now?” the irritated man dropped his mostly-gnawed bone onto the plate.

“When was the last time you’d bathed?”

Entreri threw up both hands. “Oh, for the love of every god in every pantheon--”

The drow skipped out of his view. However, Entreri didn’t need to look, didn’t need to hear the sound of wood scraping against wood to know that Jarlaxle had gone for the tub. The assassin pushed his chair back with a growl and spun to his feet.

“Jarlaxle, I don’t need a bath!”

“I would have to disagree, my abbil,” the mercenary replied without looking up, still engrossed in dragging the tub to the center of the room.

Entreri started to argue, then sighed and shook his head. “I don’t have time for one right now.”

Jarlaxle stopped and straightened. He folded his arms. 

“You haven’t had time for one in a while.”

Entreri conceded with a small nod.

“Just as you haven’t had time to eat. Just as you haven’t had time to sleep -- properly, I mean.”

Discomfort crept over Entreri like spiders under his skin. “Circumstances have been especially pressing,” he tried to explain, but even to his own ears his words sounded like an admission of guilt.

The drow closed to him and began to unlace his shirt. “You’ve been neglecting the wider perspective, my abbil. You might spare some time in foregoing a meal, a bath, a nap, or any other self-tending rituals, but at what cost? For as any poisoner can tell you, the more poison you make, the more gold you make, until you throw back a glass of water that is not.”

Entreri caught both lace ends and held them fast. “Are you Drizzt Do’Urden then, come to lecture me?”

Jarlaxle chuckled but didn’t let go of Entreri’s shirt. “Hardly! Drizzt would not call you ‘abbil’ or try to undress you - or at least, I’d hope he wouldn’t!”

Entreri mock-blanched and covered his mouth. “Wonderful, now you’ve made me ill.”

Jarlaxle laughed again, but this time in triumph, for the assassin’s gesture allowed him to pull the string loose. Capitalizing on his victory, the drow began to peel his companion’s shirt back, but Entreri’s hands were there to deflect his. The mercenary would’ve been happy to push back, but stern gray eyes caught his own, freezing him. 

“Jarlaxle, please, I need to tend to things now.” The assassin’s voice was soft but firm.

The drow’s shoulders drooped with his sigh, and his delicate fingers went to the human’s shirt again. They gracefully re-threaded the string through the lacing holes. 

“Promise me that you’ll take better care of yourself?”

“If I do, will I be spared the intrusions and the threat of forced bathing?”

“Not likely.”

“There’s your answer, then.”

Both chuckled helplessly. It didn’t take long for the sounds of mirth to fade, replaced by a awkward silence.

“I need to go,” Entreri finally said, and Jarlaxle nodded quietly.

“I’ll not be in your way then,” the mercenary said, and headed for the door.

“Wait,” the assassin’s call halted him.

Jarlaxle turned around, one eyebrow raised, his eyes expectant and his smile hopeful.

Entreri’s outstretched finger guided the drow’s gaze to the table. “Don’t forget to clean that up.”

[[ I wanted to write this even though I feel that it is kind of out of character for Artemis, as he’s the type of person to have a solid regiment of self-care, since that’s a necessary part of keeping himself at peak performance. But I wanted to do something about the importance of not neglecting self-care, no matter what things might arise. Even if there seems to be no time to eat, do hygiene stuff, and rest, you need to drop other things to make time for those.

I know that that’s really obvious so I feel silly talking about it, but today I had a poignant brush with how bad things can be if I don’t do the basic things of taking care of myself, like eating. I struggle with chronic major depression and PTSD, and the medications I take cause mild to severe nausea, so eating is something that I don’t enjoy doing. Nonetheless, I force myself to do it, even though eating makes the nausea worse. In any case, I was so crazy busy with work today that I forgot that I hadn’t eaten, and at around early afternoon, I felt so extremely weak and tired that I had to lay down, and didn’t feel like I could get back up afterwards. I decided to eat something even though I doubted it would’ve done much for me, because I felt that shitty. 

Surprisingly, after I’d gotten some food in my stomach, I totally recovered. I mean yeah, the nausea worsened as usual, but having the energy and strength to finish my work was much better than literally being unable to do anything but lay there.

So I guess what I’m trying to say is, there’s a lot of stuff in our lives that deter us from engaging in proper self-care. I know firsthand how difficult it is for one struggling with mental illness to practice self-care, but it’s not any less valid when people feel that they’re too busy to do self-care. I used to be of that second category too, but that’s a totally wrong mindset. 

Anyway, I’ll shut up now and go back to wondering if I should’ve done a different ending in which Jarlaxle bathes Artemis and maybe other stuff happens. o: ]]