Chapter Text
A long drizzle ran down from the sky in cold, grey lines. The rain tap-danced unceasingly on red-tiled rooftops, filling gutters until they overflowed, and swelling the waste-channels at street level. Refuse moved downhill in thickened streams, gathering at the corners of cobbled streets before sweeping to the rim of many a manhole cover and disappearing, down, down into the dark.
Pale fingers reached slowly through the cover’s empty sockets and shoved it aside with an uncanny strength. Astarion pulled himself up through the opening, quietly resetting the cover. He needn't have bothered with stealth, for a night like this hardly required caution. Still, the elf was taking no chances. Standing, he pulled his threadbare hood up over his head and headed off down the lane, holding himself tight against the rain.
~
“Well, fuck me sideways, if it ain’t Jarlaxle gods damned Baenre!”
The drow gave a great guffaw of laughter and extended his hand to the Elfsong’s tavern-keeper. “Alan Alyth! It’s been far too long.”
Jarlaxle embraced Alan as the man slapped him firmly on the back. The drow leaned at a jaunty angle on the polished bar. He gave his old acquaintance a roguish grin that well suited his angular, ashen features. “Business has been well, I assume?” he asked, sweeping his arm out to indicate the packed taproom.
“Oh, aye, well enough,” Alan answered with a nod. He picked up a dirty glass and began plumbing it vigorously with a rag. “Not bringing trouble with you this time, eh?”
Jarlaxle held up his hands in mock innocence. “Trouble? Me?” He gave Alan a friendly flick on the shoulder. “You know I am always well-behaved.”
“A tacit lie.”
The drow gave a genial shrug of surrender, a gesture Artemis Entreri would surely have recognized as Jarlaxle being up to no good.
Alan jerked his chin toward an occupied table near the back of the taproom. “I’ll have the boys clear out your seat.”
Jarlaxle removed a gold coin out of thin air, and made it walk across his knuckles before he flipped it to Alan, who caught it with expert precision. “I’m certain I can take care of it. Just keep the wine coming--your best, mind.”
The tavern-keeper slid a frosted glass over to the drow captain, and Jarlaxle tipped it up at once in silent thanks. “Trouble’s on your tab tonight.”
Jarlaxle chuckled. “As you say, my friend.”
Hefting his glass, Jarlaxle moved easily through the crowd. By the time he arrived at the far table not a single drop had spilled. “Ah, Tarina,” he said, sliding onto the bench next to the lovely human woman who occupied his usual table here at the Elfsong. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of your company here in my office, hm?”
Tarina scowled at him, scooting away down the bench even as Jarlaxle slid in and wrapped an arm around her slim waist. “It’s hardly your office,” she snapped, every line in her body tense. “It ain’t as if ye own the place. And ye already know I ain’t interested.”
Jarlaxle smiled at her. He set down his glass and, to the woman’s immense displeasure, slipped in close until their bodies were pressed together in a line. Life in the tavern went on around them, dozens of conversations all blending into one. “I must admit, I’m surprised to see you without your crew,” he said, his expression one of handsome innocence. “I thought the Uncivil Servant made its home in Waterdeep this time of year.”
She disentangled herself from his grip with some difficulty. “Randy tom cat,” she spat. “I ain’t with my crew anymore--and I’m not interested in going back to them, iffin that’s what yer here for.”
“Darling, I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“All the same,” Tarina said, standing and gathering her cloak in a stiff hurry. “Besides, I’m with the Guild now. Best keep your distance, iffin ye know what’s good for ye.”
Not one to miss an opportunity, Jarlaxle gave her retreating backside a swat with his hand. His strike elicited a surprised yelp. “Perhaps next time?” he called after her as Tarina stomped off.
Shaking his head and chuckling to himself, Jarlaxle sat back with his boots up on the table. Business down at the Faire was no good with all this rain. If the drow couldn’t sate his hunger for coin as Zardoz Zord, then he may as well feed the fire in his loins instead--as himself. An escapade for which he had changed clothes, from his business leathers into a lavender coat that perfectly matched his cloak of shifting rainbow hue. It was more than seeking sex, of course. The longer he listened, the more details he could take in around him. Sipping his wine, Jarlaxle tuned in, one at a time, to the conversations around him. He let his concentration fade in and out of each in turn, discarding the ones about matters that didn’t concern him. There was no need for his human disguise here. Out in the wider city, yes, but he would get far more attention this way--and right now it was attention he wanted.
Conversations waxed and waned as the night wore on. The tempo of the rain only increased outside, making the drow captain even more glad that he had chosen to take shelter somewhere warmer and more cozy than his cabin on the Eyecatcher .
“--run off to follow the Absolute, I wouldn’t wager.”
Jarlaxle’s ears perked up. He raised the glass to his lips and shifted as if he were restless, bringing himself more in line to hear what the folk nearby were saying.
“Aye,” answered a grim-faced dwarven man. “I hear more folk are flooding up toward Reithwin every day.”
“Bad luck,” replied his gnome companion, “bad luck, I say. Can’t say I blame those that want to leave city life, ‘specially with all the murders and whatnot.”
The dwarf slapped his hand down on the table, making their tankards jump. “It ain’t just people,” he said quietly, causing Jarlaxle to lean in that direction only slightly. “Not just city folk, I mean. There’s dozens of others, I’ve heard. Goblins, ogres, trolls--even drow.”
Jarlaxle’s ruby eyes narrowed. He did his best to feign disinterest, looking across the taproom for a potential sweetheart for the evening. That sharp gaze swept the crowd, settling, as always, on the most beautiful of patrons. Let it never be said that Jarlaxle Baenre did not admire elegance when he found it. His attention wandered over the curves of a moon elf woman dressed in a slinky dress with a slit up the side that marked her as a devotee of Umberlee. Jarlaxle huffed and kept looking. A second scan of the crowd revealed a fire genasi, their black leather armor exposing a flat, tattooed midriff. They moved aside, heading to the bar, and that was when Jarlaxle saw him --a pale elf with eyes that burned as red as his own.
And, what was more, the man was looking straight at him.
Perhaps a dozen thoughts raced through Jarlaxle’s mind, as he tried to drag his attention back to the conversation he was supposed to be eavesdropping on.
“--whole contingent of soldiers arrived at Moonrise Towers,” the dwarf was saying to his companion.
“And just how do you figure those are all drow?”
The dwarf snorted, incredulous. “Been seeing ‘em around the countryside,” he said, “wearing those straw hats to keep off the sun.”
Jarlaxle brought the nearly-empty wine glass to his lips. An entire contingent of drow. He had just been in Menzoberranzan. How on Toril had he missed such a massive movement of troops? The mercenary shook his head dismissively. He had been, of course, otherwise occupied--and it had been a year ago now, anyway. Still…
“Hello darling,” chimed a handsome tenor voice at his side. “Don’t you look delicious this evening.”
Jarlaxle forced himself to look up slowly; he hadn’t even seen the pale elf move. But sure enough, now, when he looked back across the taproom he saw that the elf’s chair was empty. Ah, the roguish type.
Those crimson eyes burned with an inner fire, a baleful light, almost as if the man were using his darkvision. There was, of course, no need for it here in the well-lit tavern. Jarlaxle held up a hand to Alan, indicating that they should be brought two glasses of wine.
“Goodness me,” he said, “men usually ask my name before skipping to the compliments.”
The pale elf chuckled, a wicked sound that made something inside Jarlaxle burn with heat. Oh, he was good . “You may call me Astarion, humble magistrate and civil servant.”
Jarlaxle grinned. He removed his boots from the table and sat up as Astarion slipped in beside him. “Captain Jarlaxle, consider it a pleasure.” If Astarion recognized the name, he certainly didn’t show it. With a quick, elegant flick of Jarlaxle’s wrist, he swept up Astarion’s hand and planted a kiss on the back of the elf’s cold knuckles. The mercenary was too old by far, and he knew a trick or two of his own. It only took a moment to assess his newfound companion. Cool, pale skin, burning eyes, and a musk of stone tinged with copper.
Vampire.
Astarion returned the look. “I couldn’t help but notice you from across the taproom. If I didn’t know better, darling, I’d say you were looking for company for the evening.”
“You’ve caught me red-handed,” Jarlaxle laughed, noticing the way the elf’s eyes tightened in reflex to the loud sound. “A man like me has his needs, after all.”
Astarion walked his fingers up Jarlaxle’s arm. “...might I be one of those needs for you tonight?” How forward he was, all slink and honeyed sweetness as he stalked the drow he thought to be easy prey.
“You very well might,” Jarlaxle purred back at him. He could not help a devilish look of his own. Playing with fire was what he did best, after all. “You very well might be.”
Let it never be said that the leader of the Bregan D’aerthe balked from a challenge.