Prologue
Jarlaxle sang softly an old tune he had heard once far back in his childhood. The song was slow and dark, the words echoing the evil of his people. The mercenary leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes and sinking deeper into his reveries. . . .
That didn't last long. Jarlaxle's lips thinned as he came across a line in the song he couldn't remember fully. He hadn't heard the song in decades, since he had spent those years cleaning the chapel. Still, he thought he would have remembered it. After all, he was drow and the song was all about praising Lloth. Shouldn't he know it like the back of his ebony hand?
A thought of irony came to him, bringing forth a slight, wistful smile onto his face as he recounted that last muse. The song-it was a hymn praising Lloth. After all those years he spent in that chapel, he should know that song well; it should be imbedded deep into his memory. But it wasn't. Any recollection of the missing verse had been destroyed with the chapel.
The smile faded from his dark face, his expression now taut. He remembered the chapel. Distastefully, he let his eyes cloud over as images of endless statues came to him. He remembered the chapel. His memory unlocked thousands of times the whip of torture bruised and burned his back. He remembered the chapel.
And he remembered Lloth. She was the deity of his people, their goddess of the darkness. He had not forsaken her, but nor did he worship her. To him, the leader of the Bregan D'aerthe, Lloth simply was.
And him? What was he? Jarlaxle ran his fingers over his bare head and glanced at the brightly colored hat on his desk. Flicking the plume with a lazy finger, he smiled again. He had carved out a new life for himself in the drow world. He demanded respect from those who considered themselves to be his better and he received it. It had taken a lot to make it this far, but there was much more that he still wanted to achieve.
At least I'm not a slave, Jarlaxle thought, a twinge of melancholy seeping into his mind. He thought back to his friend Zaknafein, his only companion at the Melee-Magthere. They alone hadn't given in to the brainwashing as their classmates had. They had refused the ideas and laws of their people. They had-survived?
No, not both of them. Jarlaxle had, in a way. He had come out of the everyday society at least. Zak was stuck there, trapped because he hadn't taken that last leap from their people. He hadn't had the sense, Jarlaxle thought regrettably, to make that final choice and try to carve a new life.
Zak was still a prisoner to society, he was still being held tightly in place by those ever-seizing invisible chains. Those chains bound and wound and trapped, damning the captured soul to a lifetime of torment and unrest. But Zak had made that choice on his own accord. What was Jarlaxle to do about it?
The mercenary sighed heavily and sat upright in his chair. "Xsa linathen," Jarlaxle muttered, shaking his head but keeping his sly smile on his face.
*** *** ***
Translation: *Xsa Linathen: Damn song
Jarlaxle sang softly an old tune he had heard once far back in his childhood. The song was slow and dark, the words echoing the evil of his people. The mercenary leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes and sinking deeper into his reveries. . . .
That didn't last long. Jarlaxle's lips thinned as he came across a line in the song he couldn't remember fully. He hadn't heard the song in decades, since he had spent those years cleaning the chapel. Still, he thought he would have remembered it. After all, he was drow and the song was all about praising Lloth. Shouldn't he know it like the back of his ebony hand?
A thought of irony came to him, bringing forth a slight, wistful smile onto his face as he recounted that last muse. The song-it was a hymn praising Lloth. After all those years he spent in that chapel, he should know that song well; it should be imbedded deep into his memory. But it wasn't. Any recollection of the missing verse had been destroyed with the chapel.
The smile faded from his dark face, his expression now taut. He remembered the chapel. Distastefully, he let his eyes cloud over as images of endless statues came to him. He remembered the chapel. His memory unlocked thousands of times the whip of torture bruised and burned his back. He remembered the chapel.
And he remembered Lloth. She was the deity of his people, their goddess of the darkness. He had not forsaken her, but nor did he worship her. To him, the leader of the Bregan D'aerthe, Lloth simply was.
And him? What was he? Jarlaxle ran his fingers over his bare head and glanced at the brightly colored hat on his desk. Flicking the plume with a lazy finger, he smiled again. He had carved out a new life for himself in the drow world. He demanded respect from those who considered themselves to be his better and he received it. It had taken a lot to make it this far, but there was much more that he still wanted to achieve.
At least I'm not a slave, Jarlaxle thought, a twinge of melancholy seeping into his mind. He thought back to his friend Zaknafein, his only companion at the Melee-Magthere. They alone hadn't given in to the brainwashing as their classmates had. They had refused the ideas and laws of their people. They had-survived?
No, not both of them. Jarlaxle had, in a way. He had come out of the everyday society at least. Zak was stuck there, trapped because he hadn't taken that last leap from their people. He hadn't had the sense, Jarlaxle thought regrettably, to make that final choice and try to carve a new life.
Zak was still a prisoner to society, he was still being held tightly in place by those ever-seizing invisible chains. Those chains bound and wound and trapped, damning the captured soul to a lifetime of torment and unrest. But Zak had made that choice on his own accord. What was Jarlaxle to do about it?
The mercenary sighed heavily and sat upright in his chair. "Xsa linathen," Jarlaxle muttered, shaking his head but keeping his sly smile on his face.
*** *** ***
Translation: *Xsa Linathen: Damn song
