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: This chapter also draws on the first five books of the War of the Spider Queen series. Alas, due to my finances, I am unable to possess Resurrection at this time, so please be patient with any details I may have omitted.
Chapter 4: Mutual Benefit
The light from the teleport gradually faded. Jarlaxle shook off the momentary dizziness before taking the opportunity to properly focus on his new surroundings He immediately noticed he was in a large room paneled with deep purple mushroom stalks and adorned with various blue tapestries and bushes of green faerie fire. The floor almost looked like the blue green moss was a carpet, while his ears picked up the sound of a fiddle playing a screeching, mournful tune. His vision gradually came to the small, round table or carved stone in the center covered with a red embroidered table cloth and a crystal vase of fungus sprouts. He then looked to the side and saw a desiccated, animated corpse of some sort dressed in festive purple robes and playing the fiddle; its toothy, maw in almost a smile. Jarlaxle gave out a small chuckle, savoring the irony of this whole situation.
"You know how to throw a party," he said to any unknown presence in the room, which he had yet to determine was real or extra-dimensional.
"You are welcome," a familiar voice huffed.
Jarlaxle looked back to the table and met eyes with the youthful, yet ancient figure sitting in his usual stiff posture. Gromph Baenre looked a bit more tired than Jarlaxle remembered, though he could understand all the reasons why. His long white hair fell neatly over his back while two sections of hair in front were pulled together by two respective ornaments that fell down each shoulder. His black robes were just as pressed and flouncy as always, though he seemed to have added a green mantle which Jarlaxle thought was a nice touch to a normally staid outfit. What did not change was the pure aura of power that exuded from every part of his being. He was a youthful looking creature of mere flesh and blood, yet Jarlaxle never doubted that the Archmage of Menzoberranzan could tear him inside out with merely a flick of his wrist.
The Archmage motioned towards the plush, metal chair across from him that almost looked like the mating of a barstool in the Bazaar and a Matron's throne. Jarlaxle nodded in response, a dirty grin firmly planted on his face as he sat down with a sweep of his cape.
"To what do I owe the pleasure, Master Archmage?" he asked, leaning back in his chair and fixing Gromph with a smile, testing the how far his notoriously short patience could be stretched.
The Archmage, to his surprise, actually seemed to smile; though it could have been just a trick of the light. He snapped his fingers and another desiccated corpse walked from behind one of the tapestries bearing a round tray containing a bottle of mushroom wine and two stone goblets. Jarlaxle laughed, remembering the last meeting he had with this same individual. He wondered if Gromph would send one or both of his undead servitors into a ball of flames like he did last time.
The zombie hobbled over and carefully lowered the tray onto the table, rising and bowing. Gromph waved his hand in dismissal and the zombie walked back across the room. The Archmage twisted the cork from the bottle with fine, long nailed fingers before picking up the bottle and pouring an equal amount of the sweet smelling wine into both goblets before lowering the bottle with a profound thud. Jarlaxle snatched up the goblet and raised it.
"Are we drinking to anything?" he asked, his smile firmly intact.
Gromph gave a small grimace that almost resembled a smirk and raised his own cup.
"To four hundred and thirty-five years," he said, his usual stiff tone taking a slight inflection of drama while savoring the momentary twitch of the smug mercenary's smile before it was pasted back on in an instant. "To four hundred thirty-five years of successful scheming, countless bodies raked over the fires of deception, and having all of Menzoberranzan begging for mercy or allegiance with one hand in the coffers. All done by one individual whose heart was given to Lolth soon after his birth, yet for reasons that shall never be known outside the Demonweb, was brought back to the world of the living to become the consummate schemer we know today. "
Jarlaxle felt a small tightness in his chest at the reference. This meeting had already begun on the bluntest note and the only way from here was down.
"I assume I know this individual to whom you are toasting," Jarlaxle said, giving a wicked cackle and raising his glass.
"I am just experimenting with an alien custom," the Archmage replied, "I believe in some cultures, it is a tradition of sorts to celebrate the anniversary of one's birth. What is it called, a 'birthday?'"
Jarlaxle maintained his calm demeanor, yet couldn't prevent the small beads of sweat that began to form on his back. He did not at all like where this was going, neither did he like the smug look Gromph was giving him now. Normally the Archmage showed no emotions besides bored vexation, though to see him somewhat jovial was almost frightening.
Gromph threw back his glass, consuming the contents in one gulp before slamming it down with the irritated expression that made Jarlaxle a bit more comfortable.
"I did not summon you here to toast your ego," the Archmage continued in his usual strained tone. "As you should have heard already, Menzoberranzan herself has just come out of a period of strife. Shall I explain to you why? I know you have been away from the city for so long, you may not be updated on all the latest news."
Jarlaxle raised his glass in a latent toast before taking a patient sip, figuring if Gromph wanted him dead, he wouldn't have gone to the trouble of creating this place just to poison his drink.
"I have not been that far removed from home," the mercenary said calmly. "I am well aware of the unfortunate siege by the duerger and the treason of House Agrach Dyrr, all occurring while Lady Lolth took her respite."
"Even three years after the dust has settled," the archmage continued in a more matter-of-fact tone, "the chaos has yet to completely abate and remains at a level that still threatens to tear our motherland apart. It is the time when one needs to know where one stands in the grand scheme of things, especially where one stands with whom."
Jarlaxle smiled in deference, truly not liking where this was going.
"I could not agree with you more," he replied, dramatically motioning his hand over his chest. "My heart has and always will be with Menzoberranzan."
"You are so predictable," Gromph stated, "yet your usual gesturing misses the point as you missed all the fun, dear Jarlaxle. Kimmuriel masterfully dispatched Bregan D'aerthe soldiers for various tasks; in fact his new lieutenant Valas Hune played a significant role in the whole drama and had earned much respect among many circles."
"Yes, Valas; a truly able scout who risked his life on many occasions. So that is why he was immediately assigned to duties in Sshamath and anywhere else far outside the city."
Jarlaxle knew he was taking the conversation in dangerous directions, but it was a direction that made him the most comfortable.
"I will not speak for Bregan D'aerthe business," Gromph replied, "which is your job; or is it? If any other drow left his command post for seven years, he would be forgotten about, or perhaps used as target practice the second he returned to the city to collect his effects. His name would not still be toasted and feared as yours. The wonders of celebrity, I suppose. Though as you know, the masses are fickle, especially when the city is falling apart and the celebrated captain is nowhere to be found. You should have seen the look on the High Matron's face all the many times she was lamenting your absence."
Jarlaxle allowed his smile to fade, before one humble smirk reappeared as he took the bottle and poured himself another glass.
"Alas," he said in a tone of humility, bowing his head and raising the goblet, "I am respectfully speechless. My wanderlust took me in many directions, but it took me away from fearful, beautiful Menzoberranzan when she needed me most."
"Though Menzoberranzan is a forgetful mistress, as you know," Gromph said, his tone steadily darkening. "That is unless her unfaithful suitor had had his nose in more treasonous dealings; perhaps like all the rumors floating around your frequent appearances in the forest of Cormanthor, often in the camps of those who worship the Masked Lord. Don't deny you were ever there. Our eyes are everywhere and saw you cavorting with masked warriors."
"Though none of your many spies have obviously never heard the conversations that lead me to Cormanthor or given any one any knowledge of my dealings," Jarlaxle said, his voice still calm but annoyed; though masking the slight amount of fear that came from such implications reaching the ears of the higher levels.
"Oh I question nothing, Jarlaxle," Gromph continued, casually pouring another glass of wine. "You could merely be visiting old rogues, forming a new empire of mercenaries among our surface kin, or maybe staying close to Drizzt Do'Urden to exploit him for some new purpose."
Jarlaxle's visible eye narrowed slightly at the very mention of Drizzt's name. Gromph must have known much about the activities going on in Cormanthor, though he could not help but think about all the reasons the Archmage might me interested in a colony of Vhaeraun worshippers, most of them having to do with the rumors he heard about Gromph's own spiritual leanings.
"You could be dancing under the moon every night wearing nothing but a mask and declaring yourself Vhaeraun's whore and I could care less," the Archmage continued, causing Jarlaxle to hold back a small chuckle in his throat. "The very idea, however, of you consorting with the Masked God's flock could very well raise the hackles of those to whom you have made yourself close, most notably the High Matron herself. She was nearly assassinated by an admitted Vhaeraun worshipper during the war, though High Mistress Quenthal, from what I have heard, was actually trapped in the fury of the Masked Lord himself by the machinations of by a priest…in Cormanthor if I am correct, and by the efforts of the aforementioned scout who had served Bregan D'aerthe well."
Jarlaxle passed on his amused smirk while internally groaning. Valas swore to him that he had only gone to his old friend, High Priest Tzrik Jaelre, to gather information and instead was drawn into the priest's ambush. Then there was the little matter of Drizzt's allies in House Jaelre, especially Jezz the Lame; none of them ever let Jarlaxle forget that the arrival of a Bregan D'aerthe member ended with the death of their most able High Priest at the teeth and claws of the scout's party member Jeggred, Triel's draegloth son and Jarlaxle's…
"Should anyone have gone to her with these rumors spiced with a few stories involving the murders of several priestesses added for flavor," Gromph continued, breaking Jarlaxle from his momentary reverie, "I would be merciful if I poisoned that wine you drink."
Jarlaxle took a cautious sip, having to think for a second whether or not the burn in his stomach was the result of his nerves or something else. Regardless, he was in a bad position either way; Gromph was hinting at blackmail based on fabricated evidence, a popular drow practice…but for what reason? He held his glass out and sniffed its contents.
"Though I know this wine is pure," the mercenary said, a genuine smile sneaking out, "because you are not merciful."
"Nor have any of those rumors reached sensitive ears," Gromph added in almost a whisper, leaning in closer to emphasize his point, "and you may thank me for that anytime you like."
"Many thanks," Jarlaxle said, raising his glass though his tone was one of sarcastic caution. "So how much more do I owe you? I am taking the liberty to assume this meeting is a business transaction."
"Not only do you assume too much," Gromph replied, "but you also give me a great lack of credit. If I indeed wanted you dead, Jarlaxle, you would not know of my plans until the second the dagger plunged through your heart for the final time. Do I want your coffers? Hardly, I am fine with my own gained through more proper means. I do, however, ask for your loyalty, though in a mutual regard."
Jarlaxle leaned further back in his chair and swirled his goblet before taking a sip, considering the situation.
"'Mutual regard?'" Jarlaxle asked with a small laugh.
"An alliance," Gromph continued, "formed on preexisting ties and strengthened through mutual respect and mutual benefit." The Archmage paused and regarded Jarlaxle coldly, readying himself for his next statement. "Preexisting blood ties, of course."
Jarlaxle took a sip though felt ready to choke, an expression not lost on Gromph.
"The least you can do is give me a little more credit for intelligence," Gromph said in a calm, yet annoyed tone. "I hate to disappoint you, but you were not the only one who could profit from that secret. I know perfectly well we share the same mother, making us, by default, brothers though most of House Baenre would prefer to feign ignorance over the entire subject. I feel no shame in admitting I had that mindset for most of your existence, though in the past century, my attitudes have significantly changed."
"That whole business of needing to know where one stands in the scheme of things, if I understand your meaning," Jarlaxle replied, his mind still not registering bomb that had just been dropped; not because Gromph admitted he knew, but because it was a topic that was never discussed in any circles.
"It is a little more than that, though 'brotherly affection' is not a term that exists in my vocabulary," Gromph said. "I have always respected you, Jarlaxle; your sheer skill at sucking the blood from the city's most powerful houses as you aid their enemies in destroying them is one for which I do admit more than a bit of envy, though it is more recent events that have turned my attention towards the true needs of House Baenre. Triel is still powerful, though she is no less of a mere figurehead than she was after our mother met her…tragic demise. There are even those who doubt her favor with Lolth. As for Quenthal, she returned from her quest even madder than she was before; to the point where she is barely able to function for herself, let alone perform her duties. Every other member of our line, as always, is more content watching from the sidelines while ripping up everyone else regardless of whether their backs are turned or not. Now where does that leave the First House: in the hands of the lowly males of course."
Jarlaxle managed a smirk, suddenly understanding the full meaning of this whole discussion.
"As for poor Dantrang and Bergin'yon, well, your companions truly have their work cut out for them don't they?" Gromph continued, eliciting a nervous chuckle from Jarlaxle; he had truly done his research. "I still retain my position after many pathetic attempts on my life, and you survived an uprising and have gone on to rule your own various empires. We truly done well for ourselves, haven't we?"
"Woe for House Baenre when the males look at the throne," Jarlaxle said. He knew full well Gromph had just put him in intimate confidence, a position he found somewhat unnerving; a position he cemented by setting up a multitude of traps around the mercenary should he decide to profit on this information. The ultimate trap was too obvious.
"Woe to House Baenre, indeed," Gromph replied with a smirk.
"So what part will I play in this little alliance…brother?" the mercenary said with a slight sneer greeted only with an annoyed eyeroll. "I doubt I shall be the next lichdrow of Argach Dyrr."
"No," Gromph replied, showing his ire at that last reference. "I would prefer you take the same role you do with everyone else, though the position could prove a bit more secure and the rewards will be significantly greater. After all, should anyone decide to press the matter, you certainly have a claim for the position of secondboy, though progress is always slow."
Jarlaxle widened his eyes in quiet anticipation as he felt the small bits of stubble on the back of his neck rise. Gromph reached under the table and produced a wide, yet shallow box made from cheap metal. Jarlaxle gave him a bored look that rapidly brightened to one of awe when his brother opened the box; inside was filled to the lip with small, black diamonds, the finest and most valuable gem in all of Faerûn. The worth of the entire box had to be in the millions. The mercenary carefully reached a hand out and gently lifted a few diamonds, examining their fine quality.
"Feel free to appraise them more carefully," the Archmage said.
Jarlaxle obliged, lifting one to his eye, shifting his eyepatch from one eye to the other a few times before looking carefully at the cut and color of the gem. He took a careful look at a few of them before replacing them all in the box with a satisfied nod. Not only were they real, but the finest and most valuable quality he had ever seen. Gromph gave Jarlaxle a smirk in response and closed the box, leaving it on the table and observing (and savoring) his bastard brother's lingering gaze of longing.
"This is the final payment for you to divide amongst yourself and any lackeys you bring along on your first mission under my employ," the Archmage said.
"A very fair offer," Jarlaxle said, putting his hands behind his head, trying to shut out any misgivings he had about this whole affair. "Now…brother, what services will you have us perform?"
"I am sending you on a hunting mission," Gromph replied, "though a hunt and capture, for I would prefer that your quarry remain alive to serve my purposes. Tell me…brother, have you ever heard of the rare and infamous tradition of the Ur-Priesthood?"
Jarlaxle searched his memory banks for that familiar name and gave a small smile.
"I have heard of them in legend, or more appropriately, warning," the mercenary replied. "From what I recall, the Ur-Priests are anti-clerics; the highest blasphemers who will steal spells from the gods to use against them. All deities and clerics are their mortal enemies."
"Very good," Gromph said, "your information is relatively accurate. You wouldn't happen to have gained your knowledge from Sshamath, would you?"
"I get my sources everywhere."
"Fair enough." Gromph replied with a knowing sneer. "My knowledge is that the City of Dark Weavings has become quite a gathering place for these heretics."
"A city of mages where arcane knowledge rules in the place of any deity," Jarlaxle said, noticing the mildly uncomfortable expression on the archmage's face, "now why would they ever think to gather there?"
"It did originally start as a place of refuge for a few drow malcontents who cursed Lolth yet were never satisfied unless they rebelled against the other deities. Then the network began to build to the point where Ur-Priests of any race will use Sshamath as a resource, acting under the guise of any other student of the arcane seeking knowledge. None of them meet in any great number for obvious reasons, though they regularly communicate through magical means, sharing information or organizing minor uprisings; the occasional drow patrol that goes missing, information reaching the wrong place at the wrong time, minor pranks of that nature.
"About a month ago, word spread through my various arcane contacts that one of the most powerful of the Ur-Priests stopped answering his communications. He never showed up at any meeting places and even his minions went missing. No one thought anything of that at the time, until reports from surface patrols started including details about panic from the local villagers, someone destroying their temples."
Jarlaxle kept his cool, though his skin crawled.
"This malcontent wouldn't happen to go by the name of Moril by any chance?" the mercenary said.
Gromph gave an impressed smile.
"I assumed a man in your business would be at least somewhat familiar with the name. Moril, from what I understand, was a recluse; staying in his multitude of hideouts around Sshamath and answering only through minions and magical communication. No one in my contacts even knows what race he is. He would make rare personal appearances, though he always wore full robes and a full mask decorated with the same markings as his official seal."
Gromph reached into his robes and produced a metal disk attached to a black ribbon and put it on top of the chest. Jarlaxle leaned in and took a good look at the black and white enamel in the shape of a harlequin's face; eyes painted in black diamonds, mouth turned up in a smirk on one side and down in a grimace on the other.
"I have seen that seal emblazoned on wanted posters," Jarlaxle said, eyeing the emblem carefully. "Moril had become rather popular, or should I say, rather hated."
"I am sure you have heard of his methods: using special alchemical components and having them transported…"
"…By tumbling clowns who explode at a certain time and leave nothing but destruction in their wake. Not only have I heard about Moril's methods, I have witnessed their effects; Gond's House of Wonders in one of my posts, as you must know, met that fate just a few hours ago."
Jarlaxle could have sworn he saw a look of momentary confusion on Gromph's face. Either the Archmage was perturbed that his plan was so easily noticed, or he had no idea about the latest attack at all. Jarlaxle made no betrayals of noticing this and only continued listening.
"So you are well aware of what we are dealing with," Gromph continued. "As you know, Moril has amassed many followers, though most are drawn into his web by his astounding prowess in the school of Enchantment."
"And you wish for me and my associates to find this powerful Ur-Priest," Jarlaxle said with a tiny hint of sarcasm, "whonever appears in any physical form other than a whimsical mask, yet ensnares mere mortals with his powers; at least those who can get through the masses of paladins and bounty hunters who are already racing to catch his hide first."
"Those paladins and bounty hunters, however, do not have access to strong amulets to deflect his powers; nor have they been able to catch one of his duerger slaves as returned to Sshamath to collect some of his master's effects. I also doubt that those paladins and bounty hunters had an associate among the ilithids who was able to peel the whelp's mind layer by layer and locate the official headquarters of the mere mortal who calls himself Moril."
Jarlaxle sipped his wine and tapped his fingers dramatically over the table. Gromph stared at him waiting for any reaction.
"Moril is a reclusive figure that uses many decoys," the Archmage continued. "Though the real man is easily drawn out by anything he considers a great threat to his power. If he even has the slightest notion you are on his tail, he will make his presence known. You will be ill-matched against the Ur-Priest and his followers alone, but I am certain the human and the Do'Urden renegade will be more than enough manpower; though you may want to recruit that Sshemlet heretic for extra magical support."
Jarlaxle allowed himself a resigned sigh. Not only did Gromph know of his involvement with Drizzt, he also knew about the frequent presence of Drizzt's High Priest. It was a situation that he cared not to think on at all and instead accept the reality. Gromph then reached into his robes and produced another box, this one much smaller that the first, laying it on the table and opening the lid. Jarlaxle observed a few different boxes, as well as a modest, leather tube tucked at the very back. Gromph reached in a produced a large, velvet bag; opening it to reveal several varieties of jewels and many pieces of gold and platinum.
"I will give you this now," the Archmage said, "for any expenses you may occur on the journey; supplies, tribute, any other reasons." He put the bag back in the box and produced a small case lined in blue velvet, opening it to reveal four polished black stones at the end of their respective silver chains. "These are amulets that will guard against greater enchantments, far more powerful than that eyepatch you wear. There is one for you and three other party members."
Gromph casually closed the box and place it back with the others, producing a wider one and opening it to reveal a silver, jewel encrusted…collar?
"When you finally reach Moril," he said, "clamp this around his neck. It will immediately disrupt his neural waves and render him unconscious for as long as it remains on. The effect will be instantaneous. Keep that seal Kimmuriel gave you; as soon as you have Moril, use it to call to me and I will bring you straight away to Menzoberranzan." He put the box back in and clasped the ends of the leather tube, raising it slightly to get his brother's attention. "I do not need to tell you what this contains. If you so much as lay an eye on the parchment on which this map is written, I will consider you bound by our agreement."
Jarlaxle looked at the tube, feeling a small surge of excitement mingling with the thousand cries of warning flying through his brain; this was too easy, such a cruel creature was being far to generous for this to be legitimate. This was, however, Gromph. The mercenary swirled his goblet, giving himself a moment to absorb the reality, seeing more advantage in a situation into which essentially been trapped. He grinned and raised his glass.
"To mutual benefit," he toasted, his tone revealing a bit of resignation.
Gromph managed a small smirk. Jarlaxle and Gromph locked glares for a second, passing along so much information between them without saying a word. The Archmage nodded his head slowly and twisted one end of the tube.
000000000
A part of Drizzt hoped he had gained unquestioned entrance to The Black Trencher because of his race, though it may have been because he was already well known as one of the Bani Pilazi Guild's most accomplished assassins, though the most likely reason was that The Black Trencher was already a rowdy, decrepit, ask-no-questions tavern. Regardless, Shaglat, the orc bartender, merely gave a nod when the two dark elves appeared on the back doorstep dragging along a poor creature buried in rags and smelling like his own feces. Shaglat did receive a few gold pieces tossed against his scaly head as the surly looking warrior and his cloaked companion walked through the door and shoved their way into a few empty rooms upstairs.
The Black Trencher was by no means the fanciest watering hole in town, though some of the rooms had the luxury of small, metal bath tubs that looked more like large stew pots that could actually be filled with tepid water for a few extra silver pieces. For Drizzt's purposes, it was perfect.
He propped himself up to a half sit on the musty smelling bed, hoping no splinters would seep into his scalp after he simply leaned his head back against the splintered post to gulp down another mouthful of abysmally cheap bourbon; it tasted like a bad alchemy experiment and made his head hurt just smelling it, though it would do. He would occasionally pick up the sound of a gloriously familiar voice in the next room grunting and swearing at his attending cleric, though Drizzt tried not to focus on this too much. Artemis was alive and, judging by the last time he heard Mazn'reysla called a "pig fucker," he was feistier than usual, though Drizzt did not want to think on the exact reasons why.
It was one thing to come close to death, Drizzt thought, a state he was beginning to understand too well. To actually come back from death itself, however, was a different matter entirely.
The sounds in the other room eventually quieted, leaving Drizzt alone with his thoughts and his liquor; the latter making the former a little quieter as well. Drizzt's thoughts were interrupted by a small press on the bed. He looked over to see Azril, Mazn'reysla's demonic feline familiar, sitting next to him with a look of impatient beckoning. He smiled, reaching out a hand to scratch her under the chin. Azril gave a purr that almost sounded like a tiny rumble from a distant part of the Abyss. She leaned over into his face, her red eyes boring into him, before a fork tongue stuck out and liked the end of his nose. He laughed and looked to the side, not surprised to see Mazn'reysla right beside the bed. He smiled and came to a sit, scratching the cat's head and awaiting his first report.
"How is he?" Drizzt asked in a dour tone, looking up and meeting Mazn'reysla's beaming gaze.
"Alive," the cleric said calmly, "otherwise as well as he can be."
Drizzt gave a stiff nod that he knew communicated so much more to his partner. The cat ran from his side and gave a flying leap straight into Mazn'reysla's arms.
"You are aware your debt to him is repaid," the cleric continued, scratching behind her ear. "I know that means something to you." He paused, only to see Drizzt take another long swig and savor the burn. "I healed the rest of his wounds, and stood in the hall as he bathed himself, though I could have sworn he was scouring his skin raw. I just put him in bed now."
"Though I doubt he sleeps," Drizzt replied.
"Not likely," Maz replied simply. "I would have patience with the human; I am sure he has seen things no mortal should be allowed to see and return to even think on them let alone report."
Drizzt took another long swig, realizing he was feeling only slightly relaxed after consuming a quarter of the large bottle.
"Who does he worship?" Maz asked hesitantly.
Drizzt gave him a curious glance.
"I mean," the cleric continued, "what god or goddess does he call friend?"
"None," Drizzt replied without hesitation.
Maz nodded; giving a small, mischievous smile a small child does when he has a secret and wants to tell. Drizzt learned long before now that it was better not to question the High Priest's mannerisms, though he himself did not care to think on any of the implications his answer had.
"I assume you are taking your Reverie in Baldur's Gate tonight," Drizzt said.
Maz slowly shook his head and noted Drizzt's small scowl.
"The human's healing is his own project for the moment and I have matters to attend to in Cormanthor," Mazn'reysla replied. "Though I have had a rather lovely evening."
Drizzt nodded in understanding, knowing everything he said was the reality. Mazn'reysla paused before Drizzt for a second, and then ran his fine fingers through the fallen ranger's hair. Drizzt merely kept a watchful gaze on him, savoring the massage in his scalp. The High Priest then leaned down and licked the tip of his nose before withdrawing his hand. He gave a curt nod before evaporating into the air. Drizzt crashed back down on the pillow with a groan. This night had been too much.
He gradually came to a sit and swung his legs over the bed, willing himself to stand and walk to the rickety chair beside an equally unstable wooden table on the other side of the room. Drizzt sat down and took one more swig of the bottle; not surprised at all to see a brown-skinned hand snatch the bottle away. He looked up and saw Artemis Entreri standing over him, his face in a look of mild scolding wilted by a profound tiredness.
The assassin wore a set of clothes Mazn'reysla usually kept in a small bag of holding in his robes that were slightly baggy and wrinkled; a pair of black wool trousers and a black linen tunic. All he needed were the boots, cape, and the mask and he could look like a human attempting to imitate a priest of Vhaeraun. Entreri's already hardened face was more drawn than usual, making him look more aged than he was an hour ago. Dark circles formed around his dark eyes while his normally pale skin was almost a sick white tinged with his natural tan complexion. Drizzt did notice his black hair was pulled back into its usual ponytail, which still bore a sheen of water.
The assassin then raised the bottle to his lips and threw it back, taking many desperate gulps and seemingly unaffected by the alcohol content. He lowered the bottle and wiped his lips with the back of his hand, slamming it on the table and causing it to wobble slightly.
"You are a true connoisseur of fine spirits," the assassin said dourly, crashing into a sitting position on the floor and reclining against the wall.
Drizzt gave his friend a smile tinged with a look of concern.
"How are you feeling?" the drow asked.
"Like a bed in an orc's whorehouse," the assassin replied, rubbing his temples.
"As opposed to feeling nothing at all," Drizzt said, leaning down and grabbing the bottle.
Entreri said nothing, though the very fact he gave a painful sigh showed he wasn't entirely shutting himself out. Drizzt was almost tempted to ask what the Otherside was like, though he didn't want to know himself, at least the part that Artemis likely saw.
"So you're back from the dead," Drizzt said, swirling the contents of the bottle. "Does this mean that you are a changed man: a foul villain who has seen the beyond and now arrives back on Prime with a desire to mend his ways?"
Entreri's face bore a blank look, though it twisted into a wicked smirk.
"You mean run out to the nearest goodly priest and bend over while crying for mercy?" he said, a statement that sent a small chill through Drizzt's spine. "Very unlikely."
"I am very glad to hear that," Drizzt replied as the bottle was snatched from his hand before he even realized Entreri had gotten up. "I would hate for you to turn the paladin and dedicate yourself to goodness."
"And if I did?" he asked, resuming his casual position.
"I would have to hunt you down and kill you of course," Drizzt replied without missing a beat.
Entreri smiled and raised the bottle.
"To evil then," he said with a grin, taking a swig and handing the bottle to Drizzt.
"To evil," he replied with a small purr, throwing the bottle back and slamming it on the table.
