Two days later, they still hadn't found any other clues. Entreri regularly patrolled the surrounding areas, looking for suspicious activity, while Jarlaxle walked about the town questioning the local townsfolk. Judas poked around in the caves, accompanied by Jarlaxle, and besides learning quite a bit about ancient history, it was a fruitless expenditure. They still sat regularly at meals in the tavern, except for Judas, who'd walked right back out after seeing the prices, saying that he would rather eat hardtack biscuits than pay such prices.

The drow rubbed his hands eagerly. "I'm famished. I'm truly looking forward to eating a delicious dinner."

Entreri shrugged. He was just as hungry; but he could care less what the food was, so long as there was plenty of it.

"Oh come now." Jarlaxle smiled at him. "Surely even you must have a preference, a favorite food. What is it?"

He paused, considering. "...Curry. Goat curry."

The mercenary leaned back. "That horribly spicy monstrosity?"

He grinned nastily. "The hotter the better."

Jarlaxle grimaced. "Machosist."

He smirked.

The food came in them; fish for Jarlaxle, a goodly slice of ham for Entreri, and all the fixings. They immediately dug in; Jarlaxle thoroughly enjoying himself, until the smell hit him.

He jerked back, teeth clenched around his bite of flaky fish. Entreri gave him a curious look.

"Do you smell that?"

He gave an experimental sniff. "What?"

It washed against his nostrils again, and Jarlaxle gagged slightly. It was a thick smell, low and greasy. It was raw meat and sweat; blood and offal. It smelled rotten and spoiled. Entreri kept eating, looking at him inquisitively, and suddenly he couldn't stand it. The sound of his teeth chewing the meat was revolting, the clatter of a knife against the plate was needling him, even the sound of him swallowing was far too loud. The noise of the other patrons-the chewing, slurping, grinding-it was just too much. It pressed on him; filled him with a sudden unreasonable disgust and hatred that roiled blackly in his stomach.

"I am suddenly ill, my friend." He said, standing. He dropped a few coins on the table.
"I will see you later at the inn."

He hurried out the door, and instantly he felt better breathing in the fresh air, though still a little nauseous. On the way back he frowned in thought as he went over the sudden feelings that had come over him in the tavern, wondering why he had felt such extreme, out-of-place emotions just sitting down at a meal.

Entreri still sat there, idly chewing at his meal, thoughts churning over in his head. Jarlaxle had looked sick; but he doubted it was poison. He had enough magical amulets to protect him from virtually anything; and Entreri was sure he had at least one trinket to protect himself from such things. He wondered if the drow was ill; did drow get sick? Surface elves where highly resistant to disease and poison, but drow were so different from their cousins. He may have spent time down in the underdark, but he still knew very little about them.

He finally finished his meal. It had indeed been delicious and he would definitely order it again the next time. For now however, he felt it was time for rest.

The gold coins clacked against each other when the hit his father's palm.

Mother was being led into the back now by the man with the coins; the man that stank of fetid water. She would again make those painful noises, the screams and cries, for the hungry shadowmen; the strangers that came into the house with pale, pasty faces and cracked lips that they always licked. They had crooked teeth and sunken eyes; they smelled of sweat and raw meat, offal and blood. Usually they jeered at him; asking if he'd like to 'watch the show' accusing him of peeking through the cracks to see them arch and snort like fat, grunting pigs.

The soft ones though, that crooned to him, where the truly frightening ones. Their smiles held a feverish, secret glimmer to them that was terrifying. He'd been forced to hide in the cupboard, sometimes, while they tried to seek him out, convinced that his mother was not the only whore available in the house. He wondered if his mother would always be able the steer them away from him; of if he would someday find out what that look really meant.

-Gritty shadows swimming over cracked plaster on the walls-

He'd once snuck in, to ask 'mommy are you all right' because the noises had scared him; he'd thought she was dying. The shadowman had yelped like a dog and jumped off her; snarling obscenities. It was the first time she had slapped him then; and he'd been shoved out of the room. Just before she'd slammed the door in his face, she'd screamed 'I should have never had you!' She'd never done that before; she'd loved him. But now she was screaming.

IhateherIhateherIhateherIhat eherIhateher

The sounds were starting. He tried not to whimper; his father might hear and stomp over to his room. And then, the beatings. Usually with his belt, but sometimes with his fists. The belts would leave bruises and welts, but the meaty fists left deep aches in his muscles and bones.

-Quiet boy; mommy's working. She's working hard oh yes she is-

He put his fingers in his ears; squeezed his eyes shut, but he couldn't block out the sounds.

Makeitstopmakeitstopmakeitst opmakeitstopmakeitstopmakeit stopmakeitstop

The screams were loud, so loud this time and the high pitch knifed right through the walls. There was thudding and shaking; like their lust was tearing the room apart, tearing the house apart and now he was terrified because he was sure now the shadowman was killing mother. He ran out of his room and the saw his father slumped in his usual drunken stupor on the couch. He went up to him, daring to risk the beating of his life to wake him and save mother.

men and pigs scream the same when slaughtered

But his head lolled around on his shoulders when he shook him, showing the gash across his throat that gaped like a grinning mouth; red like his mothers lipstain, soaked into his filthy shirt. Coins slithered out of his bloody mouth, clanking and clattering against the teeth and dripping heavily onto the cushions.

pick up a coin boy, have a spin

And here it was, moving heavy-footed over the creaking floorboards, feet slapping wetly. It was lumpy and malformed like an aborted fetus; long spidery legs and arms, with a bloated torso. The head was flat, the forehead caved in, the face pulled out like soft taffy. Its twisted, hairy head turned to look at himhimhim and now he could see its face. He could see the piggy black-bead eyes, that long dog-like muzzle...it's long tongue lolled out when it saw him, foam and saliva dangling in loops under its jaw, streaked pink with blood.