Heartless
Jarlaxle shivered and drew his heavy, fur-lined cloak closer about him as he stepped down a snow-laden street in Luskan.
With the sun setting and the temperature dropping, there were no people on this particular street except the drow mercenary and a beggar in the gutter.
Although Jarlaxle had trained his eyes to ignore the decay of society (unless, of course, if he perceived them as a possible threat,) his attention was briefly drawn to the vagabond as she cried plaintively out to him.
She was young, even by human standards. She was older than fifteen, perhaps, but certainly younger than twenty. In her arms she cradled a small bundle of rags that concealed a wailing baby, who was clearly sick with hunger. Undoubtedly, the baby was the result of a desperate, ill-advised bid in the prostitution industry.
She cried out to him again, begging with all her soul for a single coin so she could find shelter for her baby for the night.
Suddenly painfully aware of the mass of clinking gold, silver, and copper jostling in a pouch against his pant leg, Jarlaxle shook his head and upped his pace past the homeless girl, who, he noticed, was missing several teeth, as though she had been brutally kicked or beaten.
"You're heartless!" she screeched at his back.
He kept walking.
The next morning, he walked past the very same spot. Two figures, the girl and her infant, lay naked in the snow, their clothes indubitably stolen by other beggars. Jarlaxle didn't need to note their blue, stiff skin or lack of movement to know that they were dead. Jarlaxle Baenre was no stranger to death.
Jarlaxle continued on his way back to his warm, luxurious inn, vaguely troubled.