Chapter II
Jarlaxle lay on his back on the cold ground, the soil a bed for the mercenary. His hand brushed through the grass beneath him, and he smiled.
How he wished such everyday luxuries of the surface existed in his city of shadows. He loved the feel of blades of green grass between his fingers. But they were for the surface world. Such things as grass did not exist in places where evil would trod over them.
The stars shone above him, fires of a heavenly light so far above. The moon was only a sliver in the sky, a silver crest to hang over him in some protection from the innocence of the surface.
"Almost a shame I won't be staying here long," Jarlaxle hummed quietly. He twirled one of his many rings around his finger lazily. The gems of the ring - a small sparkling emerald encircled by diamonds - seemed to dance in the glow of the moon.
Jarlaxle sighed loudly, letting all of his unspoken desires float into the air and dissolve into nothingness. His home was in Menzoberranzan, the city of the drow. He was the leader of the Bregan D'aerthe! That was where he belonged. Not here. Not on this surface paradise where the sun danced and happiness grew in the form of grass and trees.
He sat up and grabbed the leather map he had brought with him, trying to order his wandering mind to focus. Silverymoon was where he needed to be, and the sooner the better, as far as Jarlaxle was concerned. There were narcotics in the air in this world to make him want to stay where he did not belong.
"A day's more travel," Jarlaxle told himself. "Then it's back home."
Good, an inner voice replied smugly.
Why didn't Jarlaxle share the voice's sentiments?
*** *** ***
He waited for the cover of the night, the time of the day most akin to his normal way of living. Only when the sun had faded and the moon had risen overhead did Jarlaxle move towards the towering wall that surrounded the city called Silverymoon.
For a common thief, the wall would have given much trouble, but to a skilled and dexterous drow, the wall was a meager thing to cross indeed. Within minutes, Jarlaxle was already on the other side, dusting his hands proudly.
He walked down the street, his head down, but his senses as alert as ever. He was wandering the alleyways of a city; caution was always necessary. Still, Jarlaxle kept his fast pace, knowing full well that the quicker he returned to Menzoberranzan, the more comfortable he would feel. This promise of his was taking too much out of his precious time.
Jarlaxle's face was grim as he made a turn down a darker street. The moon passed behind a black cloud of mist, the veil blocking the light completely. But Jarlaxle needed no light to see.
Moments passed in silence, only the near-silent breathing of the drow mercenary keeping in time with his footfalls. He kept walking without turning once, even as he heard the quiet, quick steps of the approaching thief.
The slight figure darted past Jarlaxle, practiced fingers immediately reaching to grab the purse that hung at Jarlaxle's beltloop. The drow smiled to himself as he reached out and grabbed the collar of the thief. He might not be from the surface, but he knew their ways well enough.
"Sir!" the thief squealed. Jarlaxle pulled the collar away from him so that he could see the robber's face. A street urchin, no more than a boy. The boy's eyes went wide at the sight of the drow.
"Let me go!" he cried out, as loudly as he could.
Jarlaxle didn't argue, dropping the boy to the ground. Startled, the boy did not move. "My coins?" Jarlaxle asked patiently, holding out his hand.
The urchin didn't hesitate before placing the leather satchel into Jarlaxle's ebony hand. The drow smiled again, whisking his hat off in a polite bow.
"Might I ask you a favor?" the mercenary asked. The boy looked at the drow, unable to speak. How could he refuse?
Jarlaxle lay on his back on the cold ground, the soil a bed for the mercenary. His hand brushed through the grass beneath him, and he smiled.
How he wished such everyday luxuries of the surface existed in his city of shadows. He loved the feel of blades of green grass between his fingers. But they were for the surface world. Such things as grass did not exist in places where evil would trod over them.
The stars shone above him, fires of a heavenly light so far above. The moon was only a sliver in the sky, a silver crest to hang over him in some protection from the innocence of the surface.
"Almost a shame I won't be staying here long," Jarlaxle hummed quietly. He twirled one of his many rings around his finger lazily. The gems of the ring - a small sparkling emerald encircled by diamonds - seemed to dance in the glow of the moon.
Jarlaxle sighed loudly, letting all of his unspoken desires float into the air and dissolve into nothingness. His home was in Menzoberranzan, the city of the drow. He was the leader of the Bregan D'aerthe! That was where he belonged. Not here. Not on this surface paradise where the sun danced and happiness grew in the form of grass and trees.
He sat up and grabbed the leather map he had brought with him, trying to order his wandering mind to focus. Silverymoon was where he needed to be, and the sooner the better, as far as Jarlaxle was concerned. There were narcotics in the air in this world to make him want to stay where he did not belong.
"A day's more travel," Jarlaxle told himself. "Then it's back home."
Good, an inner voice replied smugly.
Why didn't Jarlaxle share the voice's sentiments?
*** *** ***
He waited for the cover of the night, the time of the day most akin to his normal way of living. Only when the sun had faded and the moon had risen overhead did Jarlaxle move towards the towering wall that surrounded the city called Silverymoon.
For a common thief, the wall would have given much trouble, but to a skilled and dexterous drow, the wall was a meager thing to cross indeed. Within minutes, Jarlaxle was already on the other side, dusting his hands proudly.
He walked down the street, his head down, but his senses as alert as ever. He was wandering the alleyways of a city; caution was always necessary. Still, Jarlaxle kept his fast pace, knowing full well that the quicker he returned to Menzoberranzan, the more comfortable he would feel. This promise of his was taking too much out of his precious time.
Jarlaxle's face was grim as he made a turn down a darker street. The moon passed behind a black cloud of mist, the veil blocking the light completely. But Jarlaxle needed no light to see.
Moments passed in silence, only the near-silent breathing of the drow mercenary keeping in time with his footfalls. He kept walking without turning once, even as he heard the quiet, quick steps of the approaching thief.
The slight figure darted past Jarlaxle, practiced fingers immediately reaching to grab the purse that hung at Jarlaxle's beltloop. The drow smiled to himself as he reached out and grabbed the collar of the thief. He might not be from the surface, but he knew their ways well enough.
"Sir!" the thief squealed. Jarlaxle pulled the collar away from him so that he could see the robber's face. A street urchin, no more than a boy. The boy's eyes went wide at the sight of the drow.
"Let me go!" he cried out, as loudly as he could.
Jarlaxle didn't argue, dropping the boy to the ground. Startled, the boy did not move. "My coins?" Jarlaxle asked patiently, holding out his hand.
The urchin didn't hesitate before placing the leather satchel into Jarlaxle's ebony hand. The drow smiled again, whisking his hat off in a polite bow.
"Might I ask you a favor?" the mercenary asked. The boy looked at the drow, unable to speak. How could he refuse?