Of Gods and Men
Artemis Entreri was drunk. Very drunk. He was not a man given to drunkenness; those in his profession who were did not last long. Indeed, he contemptuously looked down on the pitiable fools whose life revolved around where their next drink would come from.
Nevertheless, his head was buzzing as if a swarm of bees had found a mother lode cache of nectar in his brain. The world tilted to one side dizzyingly, and a sense of perpetual vertigo had him struggling to keep the burning fluid safely in his stomach. Had a family member of one of his many victims been in the tavern with him, Artemis may well have had a very, very bad night.
Or perhaps not. Across the table, flamboyantly dressed as ever, Jarlaxle Baenre regarded his companion with growing alarm, regularly glancing about the room for any potential threat, his dark hands ready to throw a magical dagger out of his bracers.
"Perhaps you ought to slow down, my Khal'abbil," Jarlaxle suggested quietly as the human downed his twelfth shot of dwarven whiskey in so many minutes.
"I am not your trusted friend, drow," snarled the assassin, turning a smoldering glare on the mercenary. He signaled for a reload.
"Ah, but you wound me, Artemis!" cried Jarlaxle, placing a hand on his heart theatrically. "Through fire and ice, foe and traitor we have traveled together, overcoming all odds. Surely there is a special place in that cold, stony heart of yours for dearest Jarlaxle."
Artemis, deeming the dark elf's ridiculous claim not worth a reply, threw back his head and drained his glass, nearly overbalancing and tumbling off his chair.
"Fall to the floor, and you can lie there all night because I won't pick you up," said Jarlaxle sourly, somewhat hurt by the human's callousness. He aloofly sipped his dirty glass of wine as if to show how much he cared about the assassin's fate for the night.
Artemis clawed his way back upright and nudged the tiny cup away, knocking it to the floor. "I suppose that is enough," he slurred, leaning slightly to the left in his seat.
Jarlaxle leaned across the table and prodded the man into a more perpendicular position. "Maybe we can find a cleric in town to cure your inebriation," said the dark elf, truly worried for his friend. He had never known Artemis to let himself go this way.
"No!" shouted the assassin, slamming a fist on the table, his gray face turning crimson. The tavern went silent for a full four seconds before ascertaining no danger and going back to their drinks. "I will not subject myself to some god's thrall," Artemis said more quietly.
"Come now, Artemis. Don't be unreasonable," the drow elf said. "I have no particular love for our revered deities myself, but I have accepted healing from them a number of times. I've been healed by priestesses of Lolth for heaven's sake! If there's any deity to be wary of, it's her."
"I give the gods nothing, and I accept nothing from them," Artemis spat. "It is a voluntary situation, and it's worked out pretty well so far. I will not let them have any hold over me. I am my own man. No "superior" being is going to determine who I am."
Jarlaxle leaned back in his seat, stunned by the man's ferocity on the subject. "The only other thing I've ever seen you so passionate about is Do'Urden," he said.
"Do'Urden is far from here," said the assassin. "And he can rot in all nine hells for all I care. Likely I'll never lay eyes on that altruistic moron again. The gods, however, are a different matter entirely." Artemis leaned across the way and helped himself to a long pull from Jarlaxle's wineglass. The drow didn't comment on the breach of protocol, fascinated by the human's drunken rant.
"The gods are everywhere, my friend," whispered the assassin conspiratorially. "Always watching, always ready to pounce. They lie in wait, so eager to snatch up a new convert in their divinely filching fingers." He drained the rest of Jarlaxle's wine. "They represent the pinnacle of arrogance and debauchery. Just look at the number of people killed in their name! Think about it: People like you and me, we kill for money, opportunity, or necessity. Not the noblest of reasons, true, but at least they are slightly justifiable—at least they are for survival or for the betterment of our own lives. The gods, however, slaughter indiscriminately for nothing less than their ego." He pounded his fist on the table again for emphasis. "For their EGO!"
The tavern's two bouncers scowled at the assassin and flexed their muscles threateningly. Artemis ignored them.
"War after endless war, Jarlaxle, for uncountable millennia," whispered the assassin disparagingly. "Untold millions, if not billions, killing each other for little reason other than their gods demanded it of them. Less, even. Sometimes priests see it fit to start wars over trivial religious disputes and begin executions without waiting for their deity's sanctions." Artemis shook his head almost sadly. "People claim to hate us and those like us: assassins, mercenaries, opportunists. Yet, in the vast scheme of things, all the blood shed in the history of killing contracts is but a drop next to the crimson ocean of the endless crusades and jihads."
Artemis suddenly became very still, and he closed his eyes. A couple of minutes passed, and the mercenary leader became worried that the assassin had fallen asleep in his seat. However, just as Jarlaxle reached over to prod the man awake, the human's eyes popped open in wild fervor.
"You know what I'd like to do, Jarlaxle?" Artemis said, straightening, his eyes glowing with renewed passion.
Jarlaxle shook his head, suddenly becoming apprehensive.
A certain jeweled dagger suddenly materialized in the assassin's hands as if by magic. He twirled it about his fingers casually, thoughtfully. "I'd like to assassinate a god someday," Artemis said, his voice rapturous at the thought. "Wouldn't that be something, Jarlaxle? The ultimate job. I'd do it for free. Could you imagine the power I'd get by plunging this dagger into one of their conceited hearts?" He sighed wistfully. "To kill a god," he mumbled. And then he slumped forward face-first onto the tabletop. The vampiric dagger fell to the floor, its point burying itself in the relatively soft wood, its blade and hilt quivering.
Jarlaxle bent over and retrieved the dagger, slipping it back into the human's belt. "A fascinating thought, my Khal'abbil," he said, "but a foolish one. Leave the slaying of gods to the gods themselves. Even they themselves will be judged someday." He began tugging Artemis upstairs to their rented room. "Dream, my friend. Strike down all the dragons, drow, and gods you want in your dreams, but I expect you to be more sensible when you wake up tomorrow."
Artemis snored softly, and when he awoke the next morning, the headache erased all memory of their conversation.