The Lesser Evil: Hooligan's Holiday
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.
Author's Note: I would like to give huge thanks to Haktari, Alzadea, Lessiehanamory, Suzeanne, Danayala, Rezuri, ViragoLuna, and SilverWolf who all reviewed "The Cruelest Fate" as well as everyone who read this story on Lavender Eyes and That story was a bit of an experiment that absolutely had to be written, though I knew a lot of people wouldn't like its subject matter at all. I was pleasantly surprised by the positive response it received, to a huge thanks to all of you who braved it. For those who haven't read it, "The Cruelest Fate" provides some insight into Drizzt and Mazn'reysla's relationship, though if you would prefer to leave that point a mystery, just continue on.
The cat in this story was infleunced by a series of IM conversations I had with my friend Keket, so huge thanks to her for all the warped, twisted ideas.
Chapter 2: Dark, Mysterious Figures
A jeweled dagger thrust into the empty cask on his left while Charon's Claw sliced the corner of the holding shed on his right. He kicked out against the gray, weathered wood, putting his foot through the wall of the flimsy excuse for storage space and pulled it out in a second to spin around and thrust the dagger forward with a loud growl. Sweat poured from his body as the unusually humid night continued its press, though Artemis Entreri never noticed.
Charon's Claw reduced another cask to pieces of weathered planks that reeked of ancient ale while his left foot kicked out and the force sent another barrel skimming over the flat stones that comprised the roof of Bani Pilazi's guild house, sending it tipping over the small turret and crashing into the alleyway a second later. Entreri's keen hearing did pick up the yowl of an ill-fated alleycat below, though he didn't care. His mind was a complete blur of anger, though a few coherent thoughts occasionally emerged amid the din.
"Its's not the first time someone has tried to kill you," he grumbled to himself in a horrible attempt at calming his rage.
Entreri went into another spin, his black ponytail whipping in his face as he thrust Charon's Claw out into thin air.
"In fact it has been the most regular event of your life."
He sidestepped a few paces and thrust the dagger back, spinning and swinging his longsword in a wide arc.
"So many people have wanted you dead, you fool, why are you losing it now."
He kicked out with one leg, cracking another barrel before Charon's Claw swung out and cut it straight in half.
"Why, because they weren't supposed to get that close!" he said at last before shoving the dagger into the side of the shed, the force traveling up his arm and aggravating the small wound from a hunting knife that had reached his shoulder earlier that night.
Entreri let out a loud, grunt of pain, before withdrawing the dagger with another growl and standing still to catch his breath. With a harsh sigh, he shoved his blades in their respective scabbards and ran a hand through his hair. He managed to calm slightly as his still shaking hands found their way to the buttons of his sweat-soaked, black tunic, which he carefully unbuttoned, shoving the panels aside before finally ripping it off and throwing it to the stones. His bare skin at last exploited a small chill in the night air and calmed his temper significantly.
Odds are good there is probably a crossbowman in the next building, he thought as he leaned on the shed and took another deep breath, and here you are completely exposed.
It was a thought that merely let out a chuckle as Entreri looked at the small, yet angry slice beside his collarbone. It was only a flesh wound, but the perspiration and lack of any treatment still made it ache like hell. A tiny drop of blood still oozed out, yet the wound was pretty much sealing itself.
Entreri turned away from the wound and looked out at the glowing sight of Baldur's Gate at night from the rooftop of a building that was only three stories, yet its location on a hilly side street gave it the perfect vantage point of the rest of the city. It had been his home for the past year and he made it his own. It was only supposed to be a location for a short stop in his many adventures, but then he was summoned by his old associate Bani Pilazi, a fellow lieutenant in Pasha Pook's thieves' guild in Calimport who ran to Baldur's Gate for his own business. The self-glorified idiot had recruited Entreri as yet another lackey employed to follow his whims and make him money while he never left his damn apartment. Entreri took the position, and practically took over the guild.
Pilazi never knew how much money his more calculating colleague had siphoned into his own coffers, which he made sure no one would touch besides him. The old man also never knew how many of his pet ruffians fell under the sword and were replaced with more skilled and obedient rogues of Entreri's choosing. While Bani Pilazi lounged on his velvet couch drinking Chultan cocoa and eating sautéed boar by the platter, his guild was in the full operational and financial control of his favorite lackey.
Over the past year, Artemis Entreri was the guild master; a position he wanted to be permanent. At first the only issue of contention was the involvement of Entreri's long time partner Jarlaxle, a drow who had a tendency of taking things over for himself. Jarlaxle accompanied him to Baldur's Gate and carved out his own, cozy niche; a state that made Entreri nervous. The last time Jarlaxle became involved with the world of Surface thieves' guilds, he took over one as a part of his rogue empire and reduced Entreri to the level of a puppet. Entreri was determined this would never happen again. Jarlaxle had already taken over the burglary and pick-pocketing division and recruited several master thieves, making much coin in the process and amassing much power and favor.
Entreri had done his best at isolating Jarlaxle in this position and arranging matters so he could not rise any further, though it almost seemed as though the shifty drow was comfortable in there, almost content. It had been seven years since Jarlaxle turned control of his powerful mercenary band Bregan D'aerthe to his even more untrustworthy lieutenant, the psionic Kimmuriel Oblodra, and since then he had little interest in its affairs. Entreri knew Jarlaxle and Kimmuriel still met on occasion to discuss business, but aside from that Jarlaxle seemed to prefer Surface intrigues over those of Menzoberranzan. It was a state that made Entreri even more suspicious, especially when the drow would occasionally volunteer for special projects. The idea of Jarlaxle willingly working under his former pawn was more than unsettling.
It seemed like good old times when this was the only concern on Entreri's mind. Despite dealing with his partner's scheming, all he needed to do was tie up a few other loose ends and get Pilazi alone for a second and all would be perfect: he would finally have a guild of his own. Then things slowly fell apart. He should have known the beginning of the end was at hand when he overheard one of the halfling pick-pockets remark to a colleague about the drunken idiot standing up in one of the sleaziest taverns in town and getting into a row with the bartender, saying that he deserved better whisky for being Bani Pilazi's son. Since then, everything had gone wrong.
Money in Entreri's private coffers started leaking out with Entreri unable to locate its source, some of his elite soldiers were either turning against him or showing up dead, and so many more inconveniences were popping up with Entreri unable to locate their source or even know what was going on before it happened; the lack of knowledge and control chafing against every raw nerve he had. Then there was that one idiot assassin springing on him in the hallway, then it was two idiots at once, then it was an idiot and a master.
Tonight had been the worst. Entreri was sitting in his office when three swordsmen broke from invisibility charms and sprang on him. All were clearly amateurs, but then there was that one kid with the knife; the one kid who sensed a remote amount of fatigue in his target and scored a hit. Had the scrawny wretch stuck any lower, Entreri could be dead, but he was saved by the child's clear lack of skill. It was not hard to dispatch all of them and send their bodies into the incinerator, but the damage had been done.
Entreri gave one more dagger thrust to the shed for good measure. That whelp should not have gotten that close, he thought to himself once more. Artemis Entreri was an expert fighter; a true master who had been perfecting his skills since he was a fourteen-year-old street urchin who could cut someone's throat with a well thrown rock. Now he was forty-seven-years-old; an age where most humans were wracked with stiffness as their energy levels faded rapidly, while his prime physical form had not changed since he entered his fourth decade. Just around the time he had taken in the essence of that damn Shade with his vampiric dagger, he thought with no small amount of apprehension; around the time when he stopped aging entirely, those tiny gray hairs that popped up in his ink-black mane easily plucked out and never appearing again while the requisite lines in his already hardened face never deepened.
Entreri took one last, lingering look out at the lights of Baldur's Gate, taking a deep breathe as one more troubling thought passed through his head; maybe you are more nervous about how close he came to killing you. Maybe you are actually starting to value your skin a little.
The assassin put his foot on the top of another barrel and aimed his leg towards the side of the roof…when a dark figure suddenly materialized right in his line of site. He held his leg for a second and put his hands to his weapons, readying himself for someone else who wanted a piece of him. The figure looked around for a second before taking a couple steps, his stark white hair and youthful yet hardened ebony features fully exposed in the moonlight. Entreri smirked and kicked the barrel right towards him. The newcomer heard the roll and nimbly stepped aside as the cask rolled away from him and off the roof, making a loud crash on the cobblestone street below.
"You're late," Entreri called, drawing his blades with a loud scream of metal.
The figure gave him a surprised look before rolling his glowing red eyes, the red gradually fading to the faintest lavender. Entreri took a few steps closer and took a better look at his companion, seeing the trail of dried blood leading from his hairline as one of his eyelids was slightly swollen as was the side of his lip, which still oozed blood. Do'Urden had a rough day, he thought, keeping his weapons drawn while taking a ready stance and looking at the drow with a venomous glare.
Drizzt gave a hard sigh and looked at the human in front of him.
"I'm not getting into this with you, Entreri," he said in an irritated tone.
"Too late," Entreri sneered, "you're already there."
The assassin lunged his sword and was not surprised when it was parried aside by a scimitar. Not missing a beat, the dagger swiped out and was hit aside by the second blade; one that Entreri knew could cause nastier wounds with merely one slice. The second scimitar thrust towards an opening and was met by Charon's Claw, which played the feint perfectly as the drow swept aside his blade and scored a small nick on the assassin's exposed arm. The scimitar was met by Charon's Claw in a loud scream as its wielder was thrown back a pace by the force, allowing Entreri plenty of room to swipe his dagger out in a feint and snap forward to score a small cut in his opponent's hand.
"Now we're even," Entreri sneered, swinging Charon's Claw in a wide arc and being met with a hard parry from the black handled scimitar that threatened to send the sword to the ground…for a second.
Entreri regained his grip and shrugged off the parry while swiping the dagger to the side in a feint, though a feint stopped by the other blade. The black handled scimitar swung out and was met be Charon's Claw, though the second was close behind and swinging for his shoulder, though it clanged against the dagger before even reaching that direction. The second blade made another arc, though the sword met it easily. It was obvious to the assassin that the drow's energy was slowly waning. He must have had a rough day.
Charon's Claw lunged forward, sending Drizzt back a few paces. He compensated for the distance by swinging the black scimitar out into a wide arc. Entreri parried with the sword, but immediately recognized the feint when it was too late. The second scimitar, Do'Urden's oldest blade, thrust forward quickly enough to score a superficial slice against Entreri's chest. The assassin winced slightly and sliced the dagger outward in an arc wide enough to slice a tiny part of the drow's chin just below the deep, angry scar that already lined his jaw.
Do'Urden wasn't badly hurt, though this obviously aggravated him more. The black scimitar made a wild slice and was met by the dagger, though the force sent a wave of pain through Entreri's arm. The drow noticed Entreri's recovery from this force and his subsequent lunge with his sword was a little slower than usual; he himself must have been fatigued. Given the pre-existing slice on his shoulder, Drizzt could only imagine why.
Entreri regained his bearings and then some; swinging the sword and barely missing Drizzt's abdomen. Drizzt stepped back further as the sword sliced out again and the dagger came on top of it. The drow fully parried the dagger while giving the sword a small tap before slamming into it harder; a technique he learned directly from…a friend of his, though he lacked the magical strength to shatter the enchanted sword; the same fate that befell his old scimitar Twinkle last year.
Entreri braced the blow, thought it looked like it pained him. Drizzt smirked and took another step back. He took a small glance back to see he was at the edge of the roof at this point, putting his foot back to jump on one of the small turrets and lunge forward. He didn't take into account his own waning energy after both this fight and the nasty battle a few hours earlier, where a tiefling and his twenty friends from the Nine Hells decided to drop by the Auzcovyn and start a little fight for some reason. It was only now when Drizzt recalled the ugly half-breed snapping his pointed tail and hitting him in this same calf, leaving a pretty purple bruise. The point of said tail was still in his belt pouch, as the bruise was still on his leg as his boots still carried small traces of wet mud from the forest he had just departed. He stepped up, only to have his calf muscle cramp at the awkward position while the sole of his boot glided on the mud,
Sending him flying backwards off the roof.
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There was nothing but darkness, and then a bright, orange light came through Jarlaxle's fluttering eyelids. His vision was a blur, though his eyes managed to see one face in front of his numb form. Her visage was stone serious as usual, though a small smirk came across Triel Baenre's thin lips.
"You are most perfect," the woman he somehow knew to be the First Daughter of House Baenre said in a whisper that echoed through time.
His still-hazy vision looked down at his own, naked form lying prone before the High Priestess, his bare skin pressing against the cold stone and sending the chill of death through his body. Jarlaxle looked up and saw Quenthal Baenre just behind Triel, wearing a wider smile, her white teeth almost illuminated by the many candles festooned all around the High Chapel. Vendes, the younger daughter stood to Triel's left and looked almost impatient, while Sos'Umptu stood off to the side with her usual expression of chilling calm. Somehow he knew that elderboy Gronph Baenre was just outside the room and listening in despite the fact this was a high ritual.
"Name him," Triel barked, turning her head to the side and speaking to someone not in Jarlaxle's vision.
"Jarlaxle," a weak voice called from the back of the group, a voice that only added to the chill, the grating, yet once beautiful voice of Yvonnel Baenre, the First Matron of Menzoberranzan.
Jarlaxle began to scream, yet the only sounds from his throat were a series of discordant wails that pierced through his own being. Triel reached down with one hand and clutched his bald head tightly, her long fingernails producing a stinging ache as he felt a small trickle of his own blood while Triel closed her eyes and magic wafted from her form.
"Lady Lolth, Queen of the Demonweb, most feared and most honored," Triel said, her voice starting low then raising to an echo around the hollow room. "Accept this third-born son of House Baenre called Jarlaxle as our divine sacrifice."
Her tiny hand rose, revealing an obsidian dagger, which she aimed directly over his heart. He screamed louder, but his cries only pierced the screaming air and put wider smiles on the faces of the priestesses. It was as if the whole universe was wailing; the braziers becoming unholy torches as Jarlaxle lay naked and defenseless. He screamed louder, trying to curse at Triel, the other daughters, the First Matron, Lolth herself. Instead his words were just a blur of wails.
In a rapid motion that seemed to slow through time, Triel raised the dagger while the priestesses chanted. His screams became louder, but only reverberated on themselves and blurred his senses further. The dagger fell through the air and gradually pierced his soft flesh, cutting through his ribs with a horrifying crack of bone, and embedding into the tough muscle of his heart. His life essence bubbled up like a fountain as a series of obsidian claws found their grip around the violently twitching organ and the High Priestess's hand rose as she gave out a shrill cackle.
A shrill cackle that took the sound of smashing glass.
Jarlaxle let out a piercing scream and felt himself falling on the lush carpet of his room, the blissful darkness enveloping him as he tried desperately to catch his breath from the series of shrill wheezes it had become. He looked up to the large window across the room and saw a black-booted foot emerge from one smashed pane as a dark figure caught its footing and dropped on the shallow ledge below.
On first instinct, he produced a small throwing dagger from his bracer and aimed at the figure, his mind calming enough to know that one careful shot could break the glass and send the blade and the shards through the flesh of the intruder. Jarlaxle began to wake more from his Reverie to see the long white hair and scarred face of Drizzt Do'Urden through the window as he caught his footing on the ledge and carefully dropped down from sight. Jarlaxle kept the dagger aimed, then loosened his grip on the blade, letting in drop down enough so he could clasp the handle with his hand, his eyes not coming away from the window. The moon outside was awakening his consciousness more as rationality started to return; it was a dream.
He rose from the floor and carefully walked over to the window, his boots crunching against the broken glass on the floor as he surveyed the damage. Of all six tiled panes in the window, only one on the middle left was completely destroyed. He looked down to the street and saw the young drow had lightly landed on his feet and raised his right leg, stretching the calf muscle out with a small grimace and words on his lips that clearly resembled drow curses while his hands still clutched two scimitars. Jarlaxle then saw another dark figure hop down and casually walk over, sword drawn and pointing it right at the dark elf. Drizzt gave a casual glance at the small human approaching him, who Jarlaxle immediately identified as Artemis Entreri by the black ponytail and the brilliant weapons; though he found it a little strange that his shirt was unbuttoned.
Drizzt put his foot back down on the ground and looked calmly at Entreri while maintaining a loose stance.
"Do you yield?" Jarlaxle heard Entreri say, his voice faint through the broken window.
"Hells no," Drizzt replied with no hint of emotion on his face.
Entreri walked in closer, sword still out with a small smirk on his face.
"Good," he said, sheathing both his blades in one motion.
Drizzt gave him a dirty smirk and sheathed his scimitars, taking a noticeably more relaxed gait.
"Up for a drink?" Drizzt asked in a tired tone.
"Oh yes," Entreri replied nodding fervently, buttoning his shirt and walking away with Drizzt following close behind.
The two figures then disappeared from the street and Jarlaxle's sight. He leaned against the wall and caught the last of his breath as the dream still lingered in his memory. Jarlaxle knew he should be used to this by now for he had the exact same dream this exact time of the year every year for as long as he could remember. The exact cause or reason was one for which he had stopped trying to find an answer.
He gradually peeled himself off the wall and walked over to his dresser on the other side of the room while depositing the dagger back in his bracer; his head was still heavy, though he was a bit more coherent. He pulled open one of the drawers and rooted through a series of neatly stacked tunics and gradually uncovered a small bottle of mushroom wine, his favorite vintage he only drank on special occasions. He grabbed the bottle carefully by the side, pulled out the ancient cork, and laid it on the dresser. His wandering eyes then caught the sight of a small, burlap bag he had put there that day. With a small laugh, Jarlaxle reached his free hand into the bag and pulled out a large sugar cookie he bought from a street vendor just a few hours ago.
Jarlaxle looked up to the ceiling and raised the bottle.
"Happy birthday, you old bastard," he said in as cheery a tone as he could muster
Jarlaxle took a small, lingering sip from the bottle, savoring its strong, rich contents before taking a small bite of the cookie and closing his eyes in absolute bliss; though a bliss only temporary. He needed to be out of this damn room. Jarlaxle threw the cookie down on the dresser with such a force that cracked it. He then picked up the cork, slammed it into the opening of the bottle, and placed the bottle on the top of the dresser with a more careful hand.
He then turned around and picked his large, plumed hat off a nearby chair, collected his cape in his other hand, and moved towards the door. Jarlaxle then turned immediately on his heel and walked toward the broken window with a wicked grin.
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"'The Foul Villain Moril,'" Drizzt read from the large poster with a tone of dramatic sarcasm, taking a sip from his glass of whisky.
"Oh look a new one," Entreri replied in a tone of tired enthusiasm as his eyes came from the swirling contents of his wine glass to wide board of wanted posters right on the wall inside The King's Standard tavern.
The board comprised the entire wall of the relatively large room and was peppered with various pieces of parchment containing everything from a few words scrawled out by pen to elaborately printed works containing vivid drawings. All had one thing in common; they were all posters containing the descriptions and reward information for a multitude of wanted criminals. Other taverns may have adorned their walls with tapestries, weapons, or other items of decoration to give the watering hole some aesthetic value. The main visual adornment of The King's Standard, however, was more practical; catering directly to their clientele of mercenaries, bounty hunters, and other rogues for hire and given the many other rough looking characters of various races and persuasions eying the board while sipping their drinks, it was a feature that was very good for business.
Drizzt leaned back in his chair and shot a glance to the human sitting across from him sipping his wine and reading the board intently, finding it interesting how Entreri still kept the habit of checking out the wall on a regular basis despite the fact his bounty hunting days were pretty much over; going from being a mere sellsword to organizing a major thieves' guild…that wanted him unemployed or better yet dead according to what he heard. Maybe the human was merely keeping tabs on the latest news in the criminal world, or keeping his options open.
"'The Temple of Tymora is offering a reward of fifty thousand gold pieces to any brave soul who captures the wizard and enemy of the gods known as Moril,'" Entreri read from the large, prominently displayed poster out loud in a mutter. "Huh, now a temple is directly putting a price on his head instead of going through their lackeys."
"I take it this malcontent is rather popular," Drizzt said, taking another drawn sip of the strong spirit.
"Oh, popular indeed," Entreri replied with a dirty chuckle, taking a hasty sip from his own glass and sitting higher in his chair. "'On the fifteenth of Tarsakh, the sacred temple of Our Smiling Lady in Beregost was subject to a brutal alchemical attack by the subjects of Moril. The Temple was destroyed and five of Lady Luck's clerics were killed. We are asking the good people of the land to aid us in finding this villain who attacked our temple…"
"Our tiny shack located in the middle of the woods most likely," Drizzt replied with a groan.
"Actually located in the city barrens, I've seen and smelled it," Entreri said, taking a sip from his glass before continuing to read. "'Moril is a corrupt leader who claims to represent a divine cause by amassing followers, whose minds he poisons with his lies and magic and commands to do his bidding. He and his followers are easily identifiable by their'…you will just love this…'painted white faces adorned with horrible black lines like a mockery of a harlequin and their uniform of black stockings and black and white ruffled tunics.'"
Drizzt nearly choked on his whisky from the sudden guffaw before coughing and laughing harder.
"My sweet Masked Lord, our horrible cultist is a circus performer," Drizzt said in an attempt at seriousness, "I will carry that one with me for a while. So If I bring in they head of a clown and change the make-up I can get fifty thousand gold?"
"'Do not approach him directly, for Moril is a powerful Enchanter surrounded by many dangerous followers,'" Entreri continued, his tone hastier as he read through the requisite warnings. "'Moril or his corpse should be delivered directly to the authorities of Baldur's Gate to claim the reward…' et cetera, et cetera."
"The man or his corpse," Drizzt repeated with a long sigh before raising his glass in a mocking toast. "Oh the work of the goodly churches."
"You of all people should know the goodly churches still like their games," Entreri said, making eye contact with Drizzt and pointing to a smaller poster located directly above the one they were just reading.
"'The authorities of Greenest place a reward of thirty thousand gold pieces on the foul cultist Moril,'" Drizzt read out loud, rolling his eyes and adding a groan before continuing, "'who was responsible for the terrible rending of the Temple of Torm…' well at least they are using different adjectives."
"They must have removed the message courtesy of the Temple of Selune in Daggerford," Entreri said, scanning the board. "The community obviously wanting to show some support…or put some money in their own coffers before the respective church's paladins take away their business opportunity."
"Though Tymora is a goddess of commerce," Drizzt added with a smirk.
Entreri responded with a dirty laugh before turning his attention back to his glass. Drizzt took another long sip while letting his eyes wander to the front of the room. He eyed a few buxom barmaids in low cut dresses before his ogling was noticed by the surly, squint-eyed gaze of Millie, the aged halfling who ran the bar. Drizzt gave a nod in polite recognition before turning his attention to his glass. A second later, he looked up and saw a figure wearing a brilliant red cloak, a wide brimmed purple hat, and a stiff smirk just a foot away. He managed to hide his sudden surprise, shooting Jarlaxle a smile before taking a sip before glancing at Entreri who was looking at him with a dirty smirk.
"You flinched," the assassin said to Drizzt, casually leaning back and sipping his wine, the grin still plastered on his face.
"You knew he was here," Drizzt replied in a matter-of-fact tone.
"You know he doesn't like to be referred to in third person while he is right in front of you," Jarlaxle said in a tone bordering on annoyance and plain irritation.
"Well someone's in a pleasant mood tonight," Drizzt said, not bothering to turn his head when Jarlaxle walked behind him. "What's the matter, abbil, catch a cold, aching back, can't get it up?"
Entreri let out a muted cackle, taking another sip and leaning back further.
"Or maybe you can't get it down," Drizzt said, shooting a glance behind him and seeing the same annoyed smirk.
"Sideways?" Entreri muttered into his glass, though the keen hearing of his elven counterparts caught everything.
Drizzt laughed and lifted his glass before feeling a small, stinging slice on the side of his neck. Instinctually, his hand grabbed the wound as he let out a small yelp; feeling a small amount of blood coming from a tiny cut on the very surface of his skin. He looked up and saw Jarlaxle taking the empty chair between him and Entreri before letting both elbows crash on the small wooden table.
"What's the matter, abbil," Jarlaxle said, leaning in closer to directly face Drizzt, "get a little shock? Much like the shock one gets when he is suddenly awoken from his Reverie by an unpleasant noise…" the mercenary's hand came off the table, his thumb sliding a thick chunk of broken glass between his middle and forefinger by the blunt edges; a tiny smear of blood remained on the side as he put it an inch from Drizzt's face "…a noise like the sound of a window being smashed in by the foot of a certain drowling during his horseplay?"
Drizzt gave his kinsman a grave look, then smirked and gave a low chuckle, moving his hand to take a look at the small smear of blood along his fingertips before lapping it off in a single, lewd drag of his tongue. Entreri watched this scene trying to hold back a smile. It was always fun to see Drizzt and Jarlaxle take jabs at each other; Jarlaxle was a master manipulator while Drizzt, in his opinion, was just plain crazy, it was a perfect match. The assassin always hoped one day they would come to blows; remembering the story Jarlaxle told him ages ago of how the drow's Weapon Master friend Zaknafein boasted that Drizzt could easily best Jarlaxle in combat. After learning that Zaknafein was actually Drizzt's father, a rare drow who actually gave a damn about his son, Entreri was still curious to see if the Weapon Master's prediction was based on a tinge of paternal pride or any actual gauge of skills; though given the fact the prophecy was made by any drow, no matter if he actually possessed a heart or not, it was likely the latter was true.
"All apologies, my captain," Drizzt said in a disarmingly polite tone that carried venom, "it was most rude of me to fall off the roof and try to regain my footing. I guess you would prefer that I became a stain on the ground for your convenience."
"Cheeky little bastard," Jarlaxle said, throwing the glass on the table in front of Drizzt and barely missing his hand. "Just learn to look first."
Entreri's smirk widened. Since Drizzt joined their group a year ago, Jarlaxle had almost taken the role of Drizzt's guardian; flicking the point of his ear for a snide retort, giving him a glare when he drank too much, and sitting with him over papers in the guild house and showing him the finer points of racketeering. Entreri was almost tempted to call their relationship adorable. He looked over at both of them exchanging icy glances and was suddenly reminded of the actual age difference between them. By the lines on his face and the way the skin formed along his knuckles, Entreri guessed that Jarlaxle was likely in his middling years by elven standards while Drizzt, his face still smooth and skin still a vibrant shade of ebony, was still in his adolescence, probably around eighteen by human terms. Then there was the fact Drizzt Do'Urden had begun to act very much like a reckless drow youth after his personal epiphany last year, a fact that still put small pangs of humility through the assassin; he once judged himself based on the actions and morals of a confused teenager. Entreri frequently recalled himself at eighteen, powerful, strong, yet overly cocky and thinking the world revolved around his ideas on how things were done; just like the powerful dark elf warrior who based so much on his morals…
A sudden crash on the table turned all eyes away from their respective glaring. When the glasses settled and the wood was still, Entreri looked down to see a small, black cat had jumped on the table, though something about this cat was not entirely normal. Its fur was tattered and its ears took an exaggerated point. The assassin swore he saw a series of small spines running the length of its back while its waving tail had a forked spike at the end. Its eyes were a shade of fiery red, the diamond-shaped pupils in an exaggerated shape and seemed to bore through him.
Drizzt looked at the cat and grinned, letting out a triumphant cackle.
"What did I tell you about letting your pets on the table?" Jarlaxle said to Drizzt in a tone of mock scolding while his own red eyes scanned the length of the bizarre feline as his keen nose caught the slight odor of sulfur.
The cat sat straight, arching its back yet not taking its eyes off Entreri, who couldn't help but feel a little disturbed by this unnatural gaze. The animal reminded him of a king presenting himself to his subjects, or worse a Matron Mother making her first appearance before a group of minions. The cat's head turned to Jarlaxle, giving him a glare and twitching its whiskers before shifting its sinewy muscles and looking at Drizzt.
"Now aren't we a precious one," Drizzt cooed, putting out his hand and lightly patting the animal's head.
Entreri and Jarlaxle braced themselves for a shower of blood and their companion's hand being torn off, but instead the feline closed its eyes and relaxed in response to the touch, its long mouth taking a smirk. The cat's eyes then opened and looked at Drizzt directly, a forked, red tongue coming from its mouth and licking its whiskers before padding along the table and jumping off.
Drizzt sat still for a second, and then rose from his seat.
"It seems I have business to attend to," he said to his companions, "I shall return shortly." With a nod of his head and one lingering look at Entreri and Jarlaxle's confused expressions, he carefully placed his glass on the table and followed the animal across the bar and toward the door saying, "Come on, precious, where's your master?"
None of the patrons seemed to notice the bizarre feline or even made any more reactions other than the occasional glance. The crowd at The King's Standard was a motley crew. Drizzt and Jarlaxle were never even glanced at for their race and Drizzt now noticed that Millie's beholder bouncer seemed to have the night off. He walked out the flimsy, wooden door and followed the feline a ways down one of the roughest streets in Baldur's Gate, a place where he felt perfectly at home, dodging a few neglected crates and sheets hanging from a low clothesline while glancing at the alley ways for any troublemakers. A few vagrants sleeping on the street looked up at him and cowered beneath their blankets. Drizzt would smile and give them long gazes before laughing to himself and continuing his course a few feet behind the cat.
The cat turned the corner and padded its way onto a more hospitable side of the street just adjacent from the grand Temple of Gond. The moonlight shone at the right angle against the wall for Drizzt to see the figure casually leaning against the wall and looking out at the various nighttime revelers. The cat eagerly padded to the figure and wrapped itself around his ankles, disappearing under his gray robe covered in various colored patches, though a second later it stood out against his light brown trousers and simple green slippers. The figure bent down and easily picked up the small feline, cooing some soft words in its ear while scratching a mid-length fingernail under its chin. The feline looked to be in the purest luxury, its forked tongue occasionally trailing out and catching on of the champagne-blond braids that strewn down its master's ebony face.
"You managed to tame her," Drizzt said, walking closer to Mazn'reysla while keeping his eyes on the demonic feline in his arms.
He remembered just a tenday ago when the High Priest told the story of how he found this animal wandering the outskirts of the cursed ruins of Myth Drannor. Apparently the two had a conversation of sorts and learned that the cat was the scion of a stray tabby from Ashabenford and a quasit who wandered out of a corrupted mythal.
"More than that," Mazn'reysla said with a small hint of pride, his own beaming red eyes. "We are one now."
"So that's why you took off so soon last night," Drizzt said, seeing the cat's eyelids part and the glowing red shining obviously through. "And why I haven't seen you all day; you made her your familiar."
Maz nuzzled his nose against the cat's head. Drizzt caught the sight of both sets of red eyes open while black fur pressed blissfully against black skin. Sometimes familiars and their masters tended to resemble each other.
"Her name is Azril," he said, lowering the cat and letting her recline on his right arm while his left hand continued to pat her head. "I am not just here to boast of my own victory, but to commend you on yours; I apologize for my absence…"
"No need," Drizzt interrupted, though his face betrayed some mild displeasure at having his High Priest absent from a nasty battle, though the day was won by the Auzcovyn and none of his people received any major injuries. "Did you find out who the tiefling was and why he went after us?"
"I did," Maz replied, his voice calm, but Drizzt caught the hint of strain; he was not bearing good news.
Mazn'reysla reached into his robes and produced a small scrap of fabric, handing it to Drizzt who ducked further into the dark and let his infrared vision see the full details. The fabric seemed to glow with the emblem of a gauntlet clutching a heavy mace with rays streaming from the fingers.
"Shit," Drizzt growled, immediately recognizing the symbol of the god Bane, whose followers had a rather checkered history with the drow of Cormanthor.
"That was torn from the side of the tiefling's tunic," Mazn'reysla replied. "A few others of those emblems were scattered around the field."
Drizzt stared down at the symbol hoping the reason for its presence wasn't as bad as he was assuming. Symbols of Bane in Cormanthor meant the presence of the Zhentarim, a dark organization of soldiers and wizards who had strong political and military power starting at their stronghold in Zhentil Keep and spreading throughout all the areas bordering the forest. Bane was a tyrannical god who demanded his followers take over Faerûn a piece at a time and most of the Dalelands was already under Banite control; the portion of the Dalelands not inhabited by the drow.
The two factions tended to stay out of each other's way; the Banites not interested in rotting elven treehouses in the middle of the woods and the drow not giving a damn about the people of the Dales when they were not scaring them into submission enough to not investigate their activities. Zhentil Keep even allowed the occasional drow trader past their gates and passing Zhents usually received safe passage through Cormanthor; safe passage meaning the drow did not purposely attack them, but a stray bolt or two occasionally missed the mark. It was even rumored that Bane had a very loose alliance with Vhaeraun at one point in ancient history, but even Maz was kept ignorant of those dealings. Regardless, the relationship between the Zhentarim and the Cormanthor drow was far from cushy; both factions aware the other could turn on them at any second, like a battle where a tiefling under Bane's sponsor decided to bring his friends against a group of Auzcovyn.
"Hardly a full scale attack by Zhentil Keep," Mazn'reysla said, reading Drizzt's face yet again, "but enough to let out some steam. Bane is angry."
"Since when was Bane ever happy?" Drizzt said with a laugh, the image of a muscular, horned deity smiling broadly and dancing around unable to leave his head.
"His anger carries a purpose," Maz said, trying to hold back his own smile. "One of his most sacred temples on the outskirts of the forest was destroyed last night and many of his personal effects were destroyed."
"And I'm sure we're to blame somehow?" Drizzt said, though he suddenly recalled the poster in the tavern. "That's funny; I read something about a cult leader who has already…"
"Destroyed five temples," Maz finished. "Torm, Tymora, and Selune are sending their faithful after this simple mortal, delivering their divine retribution and punishing the evil-doer, though Bane wants him so badly he can taste it. Our ally Shar would also like a piece of him, though she is staying quiet for now."
"This Moril character went after a temple of Shar as well?" Drizzt asked, folding his arms and leaning against the wall.
"Last month," Maz continued, looking down to see the Azril was asleep, "A small chapel just outside of Yartar, but nonetheless. The deities know he plans more and he has grown quite powerful."
"He has also been acting in a relatively short span of time," Drizzt added pensively, tapping a finger against his pointed chin. "Though from what I understand, all of his attacks have been small."
Maz then closed his eyes as a chill passed through his form. Drizzt looked at him with a hint of concern until a small shift of movement passed through his peripheral vision. He looked over to see two figures across the street, both small forms clad in black leotards that covered every area from the top of their heads to their feet and wearing tunics with one black panel and one white joined by a white ruffle. Both did somersaults around each other followed by a series of synchronized backward flips. Drizzt clearly saw their faces painted white, mouths lined in black with one side in a grimace and the other in a smirk and eyes painted with black diamonds; the mockery of a harlequin.
Drizzt reached for the hand crossbow on his belt, nocked a poison-tipped bolt, aimed at one, and then fired, but the bolt floated harmlessly past post; both harlequins moving unnaturally fast and weaving positions too swiftly. A few cartwheels and backward flips later, they were right on the steps of the Temple of Gond. Both then ran directly up the stone walls, did a back flip, and landed perfectly on the roof; arms out and legs spread.
A burst of flame shot from both and both harlequins exploded in a fiery conflagration; the blast taking out half the roof and sending Drizzt and Maz to the ground; both instinctively covering each other as they ducked further into an alleyway and felt the sting as sharp bits of stone pelted their backs. A second later, the roar was replaced by the gentler sound of a crackling fire and the small screams coming from people on the street that came across the scene.
Drizzt and Mazn'reysla slowly came out of their huddle and rose to see the great Temple of Gond half blasted out as various bloody bodies clad in artisan's aprons bearing the symbol of the Lord of All Smiths were strewn around the street.