The Crowning
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of R.A. Salvatore/Wizards of the Coast ©. I don't own them; I'm just examining all their possibilities.
Baenre males did not go rogue.
It was a long held source of pride in the First House. Despite their lower station and all the usual scheming and intrigues of Menzoberranzan, the males of House Baenre were all faithful servants to Matron Baenre and the Spider Queen; doing their duties faithfully and preferring death over dishonor.
Baenre males did not go rogue, no questions asked. Any who ran from their House would be hunted down in short order, executed, and their names forgotten because there were no rogue males from House Baenre.
Such was a common fact from Gromph Baenre to the lowliest page that was whispered loud enough to be perfectly understood.
Jarlaxle Baenre, however, still lived.
The statement went though Jarlaxle's head a thousand times as he stared into the ornate obsidian mirror that was one of the most prized adornments in his newly refurbished suite. The entire building had been little more than an abandoned storehouse frequented by bats, scraggly male prostitutes, and the occasional clandestine meeting.
Now it was a modest palace of sorts; headquarters for Jarlaxle and the collection of skilled male warriors from gifted commoners to disaffected nobles in need of somewhere to go. This was his burgeoning little empire that would explode in just a day's time.
Jarlaxle managed a wide grin while carefully running a towel through his long white hair. The new bath worked excellently thanks to the right drill into the right thermal spring directly under the house. He would have to pay a few scouts some extra coin for their knowledge of Underdark springs, though maybe after he had gained much more riches from tomorrow's little meeting.
All the pieces he had put in place over the last five years would close in tomorrow and his own victory was inevitable.
It was a victory twenty-five years in the making; a short time span for drow and another success for him.
Twenty-five years ago life was the walls of House Baenre as secondboy and little more than a glorified House soldier. He had wealth and power then, though at the whims of his mother and his sisters. He was no more than a replacement for Doquaio, the brother he killed when he was but a newborn.
Doquaio was a soldier's soldier; an all-too dedicated and scheming tactician who killed with such a lack of passion. Jarlaxle was supposed to be another Doquaio, though he actually had a little more of a personality and cleverness. It made him a bit more liked by the Matron and her spawned underlings, though Jarlaxle had the wits and backbone enough to sidestep all the usual traps in which all males were ordained to fall.
He was the one who turned rogue; he was the true tear in the web that was House Baenre.
Jarlaxle found himself repeating this in his mind over and over. He leaned against the frame of the mirror, admiring his handsome features and chiseled body. The arch to his white eyebrows was severe, a common Baenre trait that made every member of the House look perpetually vexed, though added an edge to his otherwise young and soft features framed with a lush mane of white hair.
He looked the beautiful prince; the only role in his House to which he could accept. He was a social creature when most Baenre were drawn in their own menace. He seemed to express more interest in luxury comforts and pursuits of the flesh than with setting his web of schemes, outwardly at least.
Triel thought of him as an idiot, though the Matron saw his interests as more of an advantage; how easy it would be to gain many more allies by making her secondboy the patron of someone else's House. Jarlaxle, however, saw and heard all and found ways to curry favor and manipulate threats from the comfort of his couch with the latest priestess he managed to convince to lay with him.
He found every way he could to manipulate his environment, though House Baenre could only be manipulated as far as the millennia old bitch who sat at the throne. All her children were slaves on the sava board no matter what lofty position they managed to kill and scheme their way in.
Jarlaxle Baenre would be no slave to any Matron's whims. It was only when he saw his hair whip away from the mirror that he realized he was clenching his fist in anger. A breath later, the fist was unclenched and the calm restored, though for how long.
He gently pushed his weight off the frame, standing back and admiring his toned, nude form in the mirror. This prince was ruler of his own realm; this rogue of House Baenre was still alive.
It was almost twenty-five years to the date when he found his ultimate freedom. That day he was another slave being set against another House to hack up the elite soldiers of a Matron who actively plotted against his mother. All his low-ranking rival had were a smattering of House soldiers and mostly relied on a rag tag band of mercenaries.
The Baenre forces had their expected win, though seven soldiers would not see their victory; they would only see the secondboy stripped of his House armor and any identifying insignias before he sunk blades into them. In the end, only one high ranking Baenre soldier was considered lost in the melee, though whether he died or actually snuck off with the rogues was another matter.
The High Matron knew of his treachery; it was a fact of plain reality that made Jarlaxle more wary than scared. Nothing got past her; she had a wealth of contacts on every plane to know the fate of her secondboy.
But he had slipped out and triumphed. Jarlaxle wiped the moisture off the rest of his body with a forced smile. He did not beat her; he had to at least admit that to himself before he could look himself in the mirror again, though he did not have to.
Baenre males did not go rogue but the one who did and live to tell about it would charm his way to the head of the company and recruit many more members. The rogue would use his wiles with commoners and nobles alike to gain favors, jobs, and recruits.
He was a mercenary leader now, the second most powerful next to Hlthoran Grezzi, an elderly drow who had lead Menzoberranzan's most sought after and secretive mercenary company for the past hundred years.
Grezzi's men, however, were becoming bored with his heavy handedness and need to micromanage every aspect of the guild. Actually replacing Grezzi was an unheard of concept until Jarlaxle managed to pull the right ears in his direction. Soon poison flowed through all the minds of Grezzi's men and all Jarlaxle needed was to assassinate the old captain in front of his disaffected underlings.
Jarlaxle had already given the explosive results a name: Bregan D'aerthe, one large collective of mercenaries under his direction. If all went according to plan, he would have a hundred men under his command; all skilled and deadly warriors and mages. Kimmuriel Oblodra, a powerful psion who had fled his House, had already pledged his support and Zaknafein Vesn'nez, a deadly warrior and Jarlaxle's close friend from Melee Magthere, was a promising recruit.
It was only a matter of hours before Grezzi would die; hours in which Jarlaxle wanted to enjoy at least some comfort. Complete peace, however, would never come to him.
He ran a hand through his now-dry hair. He still looked the prince, and likely Matron Baenre would want to keep him as such. No matter how much power he managed to accrue, she was perpetually a specter looming over him. She knew he was alive and probably knew what he was doing this exact moment.
His triumphs were her triumphs; she was the one who ultimately pulled the strings. These were terrifying thoughts that had floated through his mind several times over the past few days, though maybe the case was not as horrifying as he made it out to be.
"She can't touch me," he whispered to himself, staring intently at his reflection as if talking himself down. "I control my own fate."
Jarlaxle smiled as if convincing himself at last. He turned around and grabbed his trousers from the floor and practically jumped into them. His nimble fingers strung them before he crouched down for his weapon belt and jumped back to a stand with a dagger in each hand.
He stared at his reflection once more; this handsome rogue king who had all of Menzoberranzan at his fingertips. Daggers spun around in each hand and flipped into the air before being caught in a cross thrust. Jarlaxle held the pose in the mirror, seeing a skilled warrior…who still looked like the same pawn he was twenty-five years ago.
He palmed the hilt of one dagger before dragging his fingers through his long hair. One dagger slipped back into its sheathe and a hand grabbed hold of his hair. A smile formed on Jarlaxle's face as a part of him cocked an eyebrow at what he thought to do. He did have his own reputation to form after all.
The hair in his hand disconnected from his head with the swipe of a dagger. Jarlaxle held both arms out, looking at the dagger in one hand and the mass of white hair in his other. Flick of the wrist later, the mass was a flash of flame in the nearby fireplace.
He shook his head, feeling a few lingering strands fall over his bare shoulders while his head felt much lighter without the hair he had worn for the past two centuries. Now his hair was a choppy mess unfitting of a prince…and only fitting of a prince who thought himself a rogue.
Jarlaxle gave more than a moment's thought at what he wanted to do next. It was crazy; even houseless drow would not think to mar his appearance in this way, though such was not unheard of.
He stared at himself hard in the mirror, examining his choppy hair and sneering. The mass of white had been a symbol of his status for too long, a status the new king of rogues could not bear.
Jarlaxle cleared his mind and positioned the blade of the dagger at his temple, gently scraping. More hair fell onto his arm as he felt the blade scratch across his scalp as he continued scraping with a steady hand.
Half his hair was shorn now, half the remains of his noble pride and half a thick stubble of his new life. More white locks fell to the floor, most of his hair now gone as his scalp felt significantly lighter and cooler. His hand stretched to the back of his head as he scraped off clumps of white hair with a calm vengeance.
Jarlaxle pulled the blade back and lifted his head, red eyes to the floor for a moment before slowly turning upward and beholding only a strong, handsome face. There was no pretty hair, no remains of his noble vanity.
There was only Jarlaxle now; the captain of Bregan D'aerthe, the most powerful male in Menzoberranzan.
A grin formed on his face as he walked away from the mirror and back to the washroom. He grabbed the still-foamy bar of lichen soap and rubbed it over his scalp, softening the stubble as he looked in the mirror once more. He took a step back to the washroom and replaced the soap on the tub, walking back with the dagger once again placed at his scalp.
He scraped once again, shaving off the white stubble and leaving smooth, ebony skin underneath. The more he scraped, the more smooth skin appeared until all traces of white, and all traces of his former vanity were gone.
Jarlaxle reached down and grabbed the towel from the floor, wiping the blade before tossing it on the Reverie couch. He then wiped his bare scalp, his features more apparent and not obscured by a mass of hair.
In just a few hours, Hlthoran Grezzi would die by his hand and he would rule an empire.
His grin widened, admiring the new face of power.