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The Clawrift loomed before Ven. He had never dared venture this close. The gorge was dangerous itself. Only dead darkness clung to the bottom. It opened like the maw of a beast about to consume him. The massive cracks, the fingers that reached out to grab prey, crumble beneath them, causing many unsuspecting victims to plummet to their death, surrounded his sides. He could feel the air pull at him. Drawing him closer. The ground under his foot felt unsteady. His stomach tried to hollow out in his guts. He couldn't move away.
"Scared?" The mercenary, The Mercenary Jarlaxle asked him. He had a playful, noble, almost omniscient tone. His voice wasn't deep, or masculine, a sign of refined power. "Scared?" he asked Ven, his one visible eye sharp. The red color of it was so, so unlike blood. It was such a bright gleaming thing it appeared gem-like, yet somehow more angular.
Ven was. He couldn't voice it though. His breath was stolen by the chasm. He felt if he spoke the massive void would find him, pull him in, make him fall, steal the ground beneath his feet.
"You shouldn't be." The Mercenary replied to himself. "You should be willing to jump in, dive forward toward the fangs of death with no hesitation."
Ven knew many who would. His friends? He had no friends, but the drow he worked with, the men who were members beside him… they would. He had no doubt. The Mercenary, and his Mercenary Band Bregan D'aerthe. All the members were crazy. Suicidal. Easily, Ven expected they would throw themselves from the cliff at Jarlaxle's command. Many of them would, if not all.
Ven could not.
"This is a problem, you realize." The Mercenary continued, his single gem eye revealing nothing. His tone was friendly, professional, polite, almost kind . "If you are truly a loyal drow, you will do as asked, Ven of Bregan Zim."
Ven of No House.
Not Ven of Bregan D'earthe, of Homeless House. Not if he failed. Not if he refused to throw himself into the Clawrift. He would be Ven, only Ven. No name. No House. No hope.
In Menzoberranzan, that was the same as death. Perhaps worse than death. Ven joined Bregan D'earthe to avoid that fate a year ago. He had promised himself, heart, soul, body, and mind to Bregan D'earthe for taking him in. Teaching him to survive, providing more than just food and shelter, but companionship, sword training, a reprieve from Menzoberranzan.
Bregan D'earthe was good to him.
Ven had joined to live. Not to die.
"I will only ask you once more." The Mercenary Jarlaxle softly soothed. "Ven. Throw yourself into the Clawrift. Die for me here."
Jarlaxle did not need to finish the threat. It was not that Ven would be killed. No, Jarlaxle carried no weapons. The man was the maddest of them all, he practically refused to hold a knife blade let alone a sword. Jarlaxle merely had to reject him and Ven would die. He'd be cast out.
Ven didn't need to ask why. He didn't want to ask why. There was no reason for this. The Mercenary played with lives like toys. This was his fancy . Ven had made a terrible mistake, this was the punishment.
This was how he could gain forgiveness.
Ven gasped and fell to his knees, shaking with the need to hold back his tears. He liked living. No longer did he despise his days. He liked Bregan D'aerthe. He didn't want to die. He didn't want to scurry through the streets like an abused slave, spurned by this home he had for a year. He didn't want to die .
All the members of Bregan D'aerthe were willing to die for Jarlaxle. They would never have crumbled at such a daring command. Ven knew he was the only one that would fall to the floor with tears over something many others would call trivial . He had seen Rorrik easily toss his life aside for The Mercenary. He watched as Olin decayed alive for The Mercenary. All the members of Bregan D'aerthe were willing to die.
A hand landed on Ven's shoulder, snapping him to attention.
Looking up at him, this close, Ven could count Jarlaxle's eyelashes. He had never before been so close to the impossibly dangerous man. His features were always obscured by his large hat, his eyepatch, his smile with teeth - not now. Ven could see the signs of wrinkles around his lips, the stretches at the corners of his eyes. His cheeks were a bit more full than he had thought, his nose a bit too thick in the middle and slightly downturned.
Jarlaxle looked disappointed.
"I - I - I'm sorry." Ven squeaked, his voice as wrecked as his life now was. All of him, crumbling to the ground around him.
The Mercenary turned away. His cape departed after him with a flourish. His boots, though heeled, were silent to Ven as Jarlaxle left him there. He heard something though. Loudly.
"You are useless." Jarlaxle said. "You are not welcome." Jarlaxle said. " You are unwanted ."
Ven gasped, his body falling under that weight. He could be a killer. Anyone could be a killer. He could destroy someone's life. It was easy. As easy as a whisper. Ven could do it. He could do anything just not - he couldn't - not this - Ven couldn't be unwanted.
Fuck it. He could do it. He would kill himself. He could do anything else. He had done everything else. He'd murdered, fucked, broken, made, traveled, every last damn thing in this horrid city Menzoberrazan. Ven had done all he knew how to do.
And he'd failed.
He had failed.
Ven couldn't even kill himself right.
No. He could. He -
"Captain!" Ven shouted, shooting to his feet.
When he turned around, Jarlaxle's single eye held nothing but contempt.
Ven turned around as well, taking a step as he did. Surrendering to the abyss. Not screeching, not whispering, but happily. He felt lighter than air, despite falling through it. He could almost ignore it. The chill of the air breezing through his limbs. He was staring up at the retreating light, and it felt very… appropriate.
Ven had a terrible life, he clearly had lived it all wrong. He failed in all he tried. At least, like this, he would have a death that was wanted. What Jarlaxle wanted. At least it was him being wanted. He'd die correctly.
He almost heard cheering. Some people spoke about hearing songs when they died. Olin said he did. It got louder and louder the more he fell. He felt even lighter as he did, as the last glimpse of light faded above him, and streaks of a much different light reached up from under him. And more cheering. Quite a lot of cheering - that was beneath him. It wasn't singing, it wasn't some dying hallucination, it was actual celebration .
Ven twisted and turned in the air, finding that he could move, that he was slowing down. That under him wasn't the cold abyss. Instead, a crowd of men. Cheering and celebrating. Their arms outstretched upward to him. Grabbing him from the air, pulling him closer down, and wrapping their arm around him.
"Ven!"
"Congratulations!"
"Way to go!
"Ven made it!"
He was placed on his feet. Ven didn't know who had held him, he didn't know who set him down. Suddenly though, he was facing the oldest mage in Bregan D'aerthe. Klizzum. His face set in perpetual scowl despite the noises of celebration. His blue eyes icy and hate filled. His clothes were immaculate, his hair brushed out straight over his shoulders, and Klizzum had a single hand outstretched toward Ven. In his palm sat the insignia of Bregan D'earthe.
"You've graduated to a senior member, Ven of Bregan D'earthe. Welcome to the brotherhood."
Around Ven the men roared to life again. He was shaken, clapped on the back, and his body jostled from all angles. A strong arm wrapped around his shoulders and a person kissed him on the cheek. He felt more solid, his feet were on the ground, his hands were being held, and his gaze was being seized.
Klizzum continued to stare at him.
His hand stayed outstretched. The insignia of Bregan D'earthe was small, but not covert. It had The Mercenary's hat, his eyepatch, and upon the opposite side the initials were emblazoned. Waiting for Ven to take it. Just as Jarlaxle had asked him to take the plunge.
Ven lifted it up reverently.
A test. Yes. What The Mercenary, what his Captain, Jarlaxle, demanded; die for him. Here, on the battlefield, in a sickbed, at the merest of Jarlaxle's whims - he had to be ready to die, and willing to die. That was the mark of a true member of Bregan D'aerthe.
This was the reward for Ven. Forgiveness for his mistake. Acceptance. Here he was wanted. As a member. As a brother. As a part of Bregan D'aerthe.
As he lifted up the small smooth symbol a hush fell over the crowd. Suddenly the people around him withdrew. Klizzum closed his eyes and dipped his head respectfully.
"Welcome aboard, Ven."
Jarlaxle stood next to him. A thin light clung to his shoulders, illuminating his shoulders with a purple aura. He seemed to beam regardless, his face bright with a smile, his red eye glittering. His hand was covered in gleaming golden and silver jeweled rings which jingled as Jarlaxle rested it on Ven's shoulder. Strongly he pulled Ven close to him.
"I knew you wouldn't let me down."
A rush of pride warmed through Ven. He looked at Jarlaxle in a new light, instantly forgetting that horrible dark disappointment which stared at him a moment ago. Jarlaxle knew all along. He had done this as a test. He knew what Ven would do. All along, Jarlaxle had everything planned. He sounded all knowing because he was, for every second played out exactly as Jarlaxle wanted.
That was how Bregan D'aerthe operated.
Jarlaxle's smile didn't cease. He turned it from Ven toward Klizzum. "Next is our lovely Va'Reth, yes?"
"Yes, Captain." Klizzum responded, raising his other hand and checking a list.
Jarlaxle clapped his hands together. "Wonderful! I'll await his arrival with bated breath. Take me back up, if you could my dear."
Klizzium recited a spell, and in an echo of purple light The Mercenary Captain Jarlaxle disappeared again. Not before tipping his wide hat at Ven in respect. His parting was followed by hooting and hollering, and whistles of excitement.
Ven glanced up at where a moment ago he had fallen. Jumped into the Clawrift. For Bregan D'aerthe.
"Congratulations!" Syrn cheered, grabbing Ven around the shoulders again and hugging him closely. He pressed them together, kissing him on the cheek wetly, with the pungent scent of beer. "I knew you could do it! I'm proud of you, koh ."
Koh. Brother.
Ven smile, letting out an unbelieving breath. "Yeah?"
"Yeah!" Syrn agreed, "Welcome to the club!"
Syrn gestured with his hand as he did. Those closest to them were the others members - the ones Ven knew. Those he joined around the same time as, he'd run missions with, had shared cups and food and scars with.
"Everyone?" Ven wondered, his revelation still holding him strongly.
Nil, soft spoken, half his head shaved in tribute and defiance, wearing nothing but plain clothes came to stand next to him. "Those of us Captain selected. Ones with promise."
Zaheer wrapped his arm around Ven's free shoulder, practically shoving Syrn off. "And Va'reth, Xunkoth, and Selddinyon are next."
"They'll make it too." Syrn proudly declared. "Captain said it, so it'll happen."
The Mercenary had said it, so it was true. That was the fact. He had known Ven wouldn't disappoint him. He must have known, in the end, what choice Ven would make, even better than himself. Jarlaxle demanded unshakable faith in his men, and he returned it in kind. That was what this test was.
Ven would not hesitate again. He would not let Captain Jarlaxle down. No, he had his moment of weakness, but that would be his only moment. Never again. He would gladly give his life as a member of Bregan D'aerthe. Just as the others.
"Wait -" Ven searched the familiar faces beside him, "what of Aulssin?"
From the crowd here, members gathered to watch and rejoice beyond those who were tested, an older man stepped forward. He walked with a slight limp, one of his legs fully metal, and prominently displayed by his shorts. Balok kept his hair short, a single braid weaved with red ribbon hung beside his ear. His strong jaw was lifted in a kind smile.
"Him and Erthzyn are not yet ready." Balok explained. "They'll get here, one day. Here, let me help you with the brooch."
Ven had never spoken to Balok before. He knew the senior member by reputation and description. He felt that glow of pride again, of acceptance and welcoming and being seen for doing something right . Ven joyously handed the insignia over to Balok.
Though years ago Balok had been wounded in battle, his lost leg a testament to that, his hands were no less steady. Deftly he pinned the symbol onto Ven's shirt, softly grinning as he did. Then, Balok held out his hand. Ven greedily shook it.
"You're permanently one of us now." Balok welcomed. "Wear our name with pride."
"Forever." Ven swore, placing all his resolve and promises, his future and determination into that one word. He was Ven Breagan D'aerthe now, an official permanent member. A true Mercenary. Someone who had earned The Mercenary Jarlaxle's coveted trust and approval. He would always act as a member of Bregan D'aerthe. Now in life, and when called upon, even in death.
Bregan D'aerthe's Headquarters were in the Clawrift. Their actual headquarters, of course, there had to be a decoy. No, it wouldn't do to have a Headquarters with a known location, easily accessible, in the city proper. Bregan D'aerthe was known for great dramatics and with it came a hidden building you had to get to by jumping a hundred feet off a cliff.
Other than that, it was an unremarkable compound. While it was militaristic in its design, the members had destroyed that purpose by marring it with decorations. Random furniture decorated it without coordination. All of it was accessible to all members where anyone could do as they wanted. There was absolute trust in the members here, full members, the true brothers, and because of that there were no rules.
Not even one Ven expected; do not enter Captain Jarlaxle's room. The Captain's room was clearly marked, with a little sign and oversized arrows. The door to it was even open most days.
"Ven! Dear man, come in and have a seat!" The Mercenary called out, beckoning Ven closer. He twisted one of his fingers to pull out one of the chairs aside his desk for him. "How have you been?"
"I - I've been very well, Captain. You summoned me?"
Jarlaxle chuckled, his eye sparkling as he looked up at Ven. He patiently waited for him to sit, his back open to the rest of the headquarters. Jarlaxle brought his hands together on his desk.
"I asked you over, Ven. I do not summon. Call, maybe, but I'm not demanding anything. I merely wanted to check in on you."
Ven flushed with embarrassment. He'd never been 'checked-in' on. He also worried, he was very worried in fact, that this was about… his initiation. He had seen The Mercenary since then. Had spoken to him even. Not here, in this little open room. Ven hadn't the chance to properly… apologize. Make his wrong more right. Clearly pledge himself, without hesitation.
Jarlaxle's eye, his presence, the tone that was so omniscient seemed to know and understand all that. "I have heard you are doing very well from Balok. He speaks well of your capabilities; intellectually and physically."
"Thank you, Captain." Ven breathlessly accepted.
"You're quite welcome. And thank you, Ven, for your loyalty."
He rose from his seat. His earrings, so unlike drow to have, tinked against each other. His necklaces bounced against his vest. The Mercenary walked behind Ven, his hand gently patting him on the collar. Then he drew the door shut.
"Ven," Jarlaxle softly called as he stepped up behind his chair.
"Captain, I -" Ven turned around to look up at him, just as Jarlaxle leaned down to place his lips beside his ear. "I am loyal."
Jarlaxle gently held Ven's chin, keeping their gazes locked. "I know Ven. You know I've been watching you closely. Very closely."
Ven shivered, searching Jarlaxle's eyes for his intentions.
"You haven't ever let me down, dear Ven." Jarlaxle insisted, his hand still softly cupping Ven's chin. "You're one of my most treasured members now, you see. You've done nothing wrong. I believe in your conviction, dear Ven."
"I will never , ever leave you in doubt, Captain."
"You haven't." Jarlaxle assured, letting him go. He stood up and walked back to his desk. "You will not, Ven, I trust you in this."
"Please do, Captain." Ven hurried to say, "I know what - what happened was unaccact-"
"Hush Ven." He calmly replied, his hand lifting up a paper from his desk. "It is forgotten. Mistakes are forgiven, especially when you work so hard to correct them."
Jarlaxle held out the paper to him. Ven reached out and took it greedily. This was a mission. Signed and endorsed by Jarlaxle himself.
"I would have no one perform such an important task for me." Jarlaxle told him, standing before Ven. "I know Ven, that you are willing to lay your life down for me. There is no question in my mind that you'd die for me. That you shall put your life on the line to see this mission through, and to bring Bregan D'aerthe greater power."
Ven's eyes devoured the writ. The details of the mission. His commands. The risk of danger. He had gone on assignments, yes. They weren't brought to him like this though. He was more a component, a part, a gear. Except this one read like he was - the leader. He was in charge of this run.
"Will you accept?" Jarlaxle gently asked, leaning back on his desk comfortably. "I truly couldn't succeed without you, Ven. I'm counting on you."
Ven stood, the paper clutched in his hands proudly. "Yes, Captain Jarlaxle."
Everything had been a success. An easy mission, all in all. The monsters had been slayed without fanfare. Their lair was liberated of its treasures. Now there was only the problem of the treasure hunting deep-gnomes. There were only five of Ven's group and around sixteen of the terrible scrambling things. Ven had slain many before, and this was no different.
The battle was fresh, and Ven's blade was wet with two of the fallen weaklings' blood. He had told his group to spare none of them. They would carve the name of Bregan D'aerthe here. He would return to his Captain successful, and victorious, and having embraced his role as true member. His loyalty unquestioned, and proven.
Ven ducked forward under the hammer of a dwarf, slicing through the stubby shins. The creature screeched as it fell, writing on the ground as it tried to hit him again. Ven stepped forward over it, and stabbed his blades into the milky white eyes. He ripped them out, and a painful twinge popped in his elbow.
Ven glanced at it, and there was a cut along his sleeve. He turned his attention back to the battle, a screaming red-faced stupid thing running at him with axes raised. Ven met the charge, dancing skillfully around the blades as they slammed down into the stone. This dwarf was faster than the others, and dodged Ven's first chop at his neck. His second blade came around though, slicing open the fat neck and spilling blood across the ground.
He stepped back. His arms feeling a bit heavy and panting at the sprint of exertion. Ven raised his arm, wiping sweat from his brow. He heard a howl behind him that forced him to turn. A massive rock was flying toward his head, forcing Ven to jump prone on the ground to dodge. A bolt fired across the air at him, and Ven rolled to the side as it broke against the stone.
"Cut that archer down!" Syrn shouted, grabbing Ven and hauling him to his feet. "Are you alright?"
"F-fine." Ven stated, though his lips caught along his tongue. He looked up at Syrn , and his vision took a moment to adjust from the blood-rush. "Fine." He stated again, strongly planting his feet.
"Ven?" Syrn asked, his voice rising in worry. "Ven!" He shouted, his hand reaching to support him on the back.
Ven gasped at a cold feeling reaching up his spine, at weakness suddenly flooding his limbs. His feet were no longer on the ground, his blades were no longer in his hands. He tried to reach out, to grab at Syrn for more help, to ask what had happened, but his lips went numb. His fingers clenched desperately to Syrn 's arm.
"Ven! Ven's dead!" Syrn cried, dropping him to the stone. "The bolts are poisoned!"
Ven reached out still, but his fingertips were numb. He tried to cry out that he wasn't dead. That he hadn't been hit with an arrow. Ven tried to scream that he needed help, from Syrn, from Bregan D'aerthe, from Captain Jarlaxle - except then he saw it.
Syrn stepped over Ven, who he had left there, and as he did there was the glint of silver up his sleeve. A hidden dart gun. Ven tried to scream in horror, defeat, in rejection of having died. He wasn't supposed to die like this , he never was, he was so close to being valued and wanted and have all the friends and wealth and comforts he could ever want and he'd been betrayed . Ven's last thought was to curse Syrn for killing him before Ven could report to The Mercenary.
The door locked loudly behind Syrn. The Captain's true office was secret, as all truths about Bregan D'aerthe were. Hidden deep behind winding corridors, lost somewhere in the caverns of the Headquarters, magically routed through changing halls. Only at the end of all that stood the Captain's office.
The man himself lounged on his low couch, the room darkened with smoke and shadows of lights, his most discernible feature his sharp blood red eye. His other eye was secret. Hidden behind a surely magical eyepatch.
Syrn hadn't yet discovered its purpose. Like all things about Bregan D'aerthe though, all things about its mysterious Jarlaxle, it was very deliberately placed. Painstakingly valued. A necessity.
"Fine work, my bol ." Jarlaxle congratulated, pulling a long golden quellazaire to his lips to smoke from.
Syrn went to one knee. He suppressed his tightening of anger at the word - bol - pet. "Yes, my Captain."
Jarlaxle breathed out a circle from his lips. "I suppose there can be no question of your loyalty now. You were quite good friends with Ven, weren't you, bol ?"
"Yes, my Captain."
Syrn was not. Ven was from a fallen house. One of the many foolish boys lured into Bregan D'aerthe with the idea they could gain power here. That there was freedom, perhaps, or at least freedom from their Matrons. Syrn was not so blind. So weak-willed or easily led astray. Syrn was no fool. Ven was a fool, and now he was a dead fool.
"I'm so sorry, having to test you in this way." Jarlaxle smoothly continued, showing no sympathy in his tone. "This must be done to bring you into the family, afterall. That is why we do these things, you realize; for the family."
"Yes, my Captain."
"Good. Good." Jarlaxle nodded, and he took a moment to breathe in the sweet smelling drug. "I hope you do realize that. It must be said, for many do not seem to understand me in this, and if you wish to be a member of my inner circle you must understand me…" Jarlaxle leaned forward, " everything I do is for Bregan D'aerthe."
Syrn swallowed. Everything Jarlaxle did was for his mercenaries. Everything his mercenaries did was for him. He had a tight system. One that after nearly a hundred years was unshakable. Not once had a member of Bregan D'aerthe turned, not one captured had spoken, or had one ever failed to uphold their creed.
Syrn knew why. This place was like a hive of lemla . Each member was independent, yes, but they hunted as a pack. Acted as one. Jarlaxle was a teather, a uniting force, but to the last man they all made the choice to act with his orders, not due to them. Syrn knew now, after having been here five years, that it wasn't the Captain giving orders that compelled his men to move. Each of them, tied in their belief, made the choice to move.
It was barbaric. Backward. Terrifying. There was no order, no ranking, no structure. That was why this place was impossible to break - because there was practically nothing to topple. All of Bregan D'aerthe came from the idea of it.
Finally, though, finally Syrn had discovered even deeper where the idea of Bregan D'aerthe came from. The conclusion was obvious and dreaded. Bregan D'aerthe came from Jarlaxle.
That meant Jarlaxle had to go.
Jarlaxle tapped the dying ember of his smoke into a crystal ashtray, the chime almost making Syrn raise his head in surprise. He thought the noise punctuated his thoughts too perfectly.
"Is that something you agree with, Syrn? That everything I do is for us?"
"Yes, my Captain."
"Even having you lay sweet Ven to rest?"
"Yes, my Captain."
Jarlaxle smiled. "Good bol . You will make a worthy member of Bregan D'aerthe yet."
"Thank you, Captain."
Syrn had to become a trusted member. A most trusted one. He could never hope to become a Lieutenant - that mysterious and dangerous role - Syrn could only hope to become one of the men who were permitted to dog the Captain's heels. Balok had become one after he was crippled, Sengo had by seducing him, Numrini'th by being endlessly devoted to the dust on Jarlaxle's boots, Orgoboros by his sheer might…. Syrn could join those ranks. He would be that worthy member. Walk beside Jarlaxle.
Then kill him.
Jarlaxle had such a charming smile though. Syrn didn't regret having to assassinate Ven. He feels a bit bad at taking Jarlaxle's life.
"You're dismissed now, bol . Take some time to bathe in the hot springs, or gather the finest food we've for sustenance. Whatever pleasures you may wish, have your tumble with them. Then report to me well-rested in the morning."
"Yes, my Captain."
Syrn took his leave. He bowed as he left, with a respectful parting. He appeared as humble as any member of Bregan D'aerthe would be with the Captain. Except for Sengo and Hakos, and Balok, and Jinnin - those elite coveted men. Syrn had to be respectful. He had to give no signs, not even the slightest indication, of where his true loyalties lied.
He did listen to Captain Jarlaxle though. The drow was considered a 'drow among drow,' even by his enemies. Syrn knew why. He had performed quite the task for the man. Even then, no suspicion would ever fall on the oh-so-kind Captain Jarlaxle. Because he spoke truthfully; everything he did was for Bregan D'aerthe. Including getting them all, Syrn and Orgoboros and Ven and Nil, all of them to the last man, access to the most amazing creature comforts imagined. Even dreaming of relief Syrn had never quite imagined the pleasures he could have at Bregan D'aerthe.
The hot springs from the lava pits at the bottom of the Clawrift. The stocked kitchens with food from drow , not from slaves. The massages, hair care, doctoring , and music from - not servants - but willing performers. Many of them were crippled, deformed, plainly blind, or deaf like Relrin, or missing limbs - Jarlaxle put them to work, and they worked happily to take care of others.
Not to mention the giving. Clothes. Food. Snacks. Supplies. Advice. Skills. Things weren't coveted in Bregan D'aerthe, they were provided. Every member was rich, or could easily become rich, if they took what was provided here instead of scavenging it from the streets. Wages were given, yes, but why waste time and money bartering when you could merely eat what Kinid served that day? Kinid was a damned good cook.
Syrn was a spy. He was not a fool though. Drink was free, food was free, he could find an easy bed partner, and then relax in the luxury of a boiling bath. There was no reason for him to forbid himself the pleasure. Truly, it would have stood out more if he didn't indulge. Headonism was an unwritten commandment in Bregan D'aerthe.
So he ate his food, he took his pleasure, he had his bath, and he happily laid down to rest among the others. The safety in Bregan D'aerthe came from trust, and numbers. The sleeping rooms were packed with decadent pillows, blankets, mattresses, and soft finery of all kinds. Personnel could choose to take what they wanted and find a private secluded room if they wished, but people rarely did. Sryn included.
Being together like this was nice. Laying down with the others was a reprieve. He pulled a pillow under his cheek, staying on top of the blankets to be cool from the stifling body heat around him. Someone chuffed and flinched in their sleep, then rolled over and resumed snoring. Another person pulled a pillow over their head. Two who were sharing a blanket giggled amongst each other, their arms thrown across their backs. Syrn liked this part of Bregan D'aerthe. He liked being able to rest among two men he knew would foolishly defend him to the death. It was nice.
A shame he was here to destroy it all.
Syrn woke from the shock of cold water striking him in the face. He gasped and spit, his eyes opening frantically while he tried to rise. His hands screamed in painful protest when he did, and his legs refused to do more than strain for freedom. Just as he got his eyes open he hissed in pain and closed them against the burning light.
"Bastard." A vengeful voice growled.
Syrn opened his mouth to reply, and tried to pry open his burning eyes, but was quickly met with a stinging slap across his jaw.
"Calm yourself, dear." The Captain said in his unflappable tone.
"Bastard." The voice whispered again.
Syrn snapped his head around, his eyes staring forward against the brightness, seeking out the Captain. "What - is going on?" He managed to get out, his mind whirring at the possibilities.
Another test? Another another test ? Trying to break him to see what he'd say? A misunderstanding? What? He remembered nothing between now and falling asleep last night. Where was he?
A figure stepped in front of the light, dark against the illumination, and a hand with sharp pointy nails grabbed Syrn's jaw painfully. "We found you out, what's what." The man growled.
"What?" Syrn gasped. They could have found out anything. Everything. Nothing. This could simply be another test, if the Captain was here…. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Tell him about Ven, bol ." The Captain said from somewhere.
"Ven is dead." Syrn truthfully said. He wasn't sure what they wanted - what he should say - what they were looking for. He also didn't know if he'd been drugged, or spelled. He had to be careful.
" Why is Ven dead?" The drow he couldn't see, couldn't recognize by voice alone, demanded.
"He died on the mission. During the fight with the treasure hunting dwarves. From a poisoned missile." Syrn carefully, painstakingly, methodically spoke. He tried to sound a bit frantic, but his words came out as cool and calculating as they were.
"From your poisoned missile! Your dart!" The drow accused, punctuated by his nails piercing into Syrn's cheek.
"No!"
"Yes, bol ." The Captain said, the light ending with his words. He spoke from behind Syrn's binds. "We're quite sure of it. The question is; why?"
" Why is Ven dead ?" The other drow demanded, and now, with the light extinguished Syrn's eyes adjusted. This was Wuzaxle. Wuzaxle the whore, the pretty boygirl, the one who never saw combat and was cowardly and soft, and let people share his bead and massaged sore muscles.
"I - I did no such -"
" Liar !" Wuzaxle screamed, his nails grabbing Syrn's skin and slicing downward, tearing straight lines through his face. "You're a liar!"
The Captain stepped up then, gently touching Wuzaxle's shoulder. The man immediately crumpled, tears springing from his eyes as he clung to Jarlaxle's shoulders in grief. Wuazxle was turned away. Jarlaxle grinned at Syrn.
"You killed Ven, Syrn, did you not?" Jarlaxle gravelly accused, his voice angry and sad all at once.
Syrn wasn't sure. He wasn't sure if he should agree. If he should reveal Jarlaxle's scheme here. Were this a test, he should hide Jarlaxle's involvement to his dying breath. But then why - why have Wuzaxle here?
A bead of nervous sweat dripped down his face, stinging the scratches along his cheek and jaw. Syrn took a breath. "I did."
From the darkness of the room, which Syrn only now realized was magical, another drow stepped forward. Vzah. One of the others who jumped from the cliff. He looked pained, his emotions clearly conflicted. Vzah had also been on the mission with Ven and Syrn. In his hand was a crumpled piwifi .
Vazh held it outward for him to see, but Syrn already knew what it was. Impossibly, he knew what it was.
"You killed Ven for House Hun'ett."
That was not Syrn's. He had none. He been given none . Syrn was to leave no trace. He hadn't even spoken to a member of his House in years . There was no way to know. There could have been no way to know.
Wuzaxle's cry broke the tension in the room. Vzah's arm dropped, and he looked away in shame from Syrn. The Captain maintained his glare upon Syrn. Though, no. Now, it was not glaring at him, it was gloating .
"No!" Syrn protested. His arms strained in his bounds, as if he could break free of them. Even if he could - what would he do? "No! I am a member of Bregan D'aerthe! I am loyal!"
The Captain ran his fingers comfortingly, teasingly, through Wuzaxle's hair. "Then why is sweet Ven dead, bol ? From your dart?"
"I confirmed it. Syrn." Vzah painfully explained, his fingers clenching the Hun'ett clothing tightly. "The scratch on his arm, the hole in his back - they were from your weapon."
How could Vzah have checked? Why did Vzah check? The only way he could have known, the only way was if the Captain told him. There was nothing connecting him to his House either. He knew there wasn't. Even if the accusation was true, it made no sense. Syrn had been careful. He kept nothing from his House. Not his hair, or weapons, or fighting style, and definitely not a fucking piwifi .
Syrn felt himself sweat as he thought, and panicked, and came up empty.
"If you did not do such a heinous thing for House Hun'ett, bol ," Jarlaxle said, "then what for?"
Syrn looked up at him. He was the only person seeing the Captain. Wuzaxle's head was buried into Jarlaxle's shoulder. Vzah's eyes were turned to the dirt from the shame of betrayal. No one else - were they in the room - saw the Captain. The globes of darkness hid who else may have been in the room, but all of it was to the Captains back.
Only Syrn saw his mad smile.
He felt his entire being shake. Years of work. Worthless. Debasing himself. Worthless. His reputation in Bregan D'aerthe tossed away. His mission for the Matron. Failed. Syrn was nothing. He couldn't go to Bregan D'aerthe. He'd been betrayed. He couldn't go to his House. He had failed. All these tasks, all his blood spilled, all the trials, the subterfuge, the sweat and tears and scars upon his hands these past years. They amounted to nothing .
"You bastard." Syrn said in a hushed whisper.
"Excuse me!" Wuzaxle screamed, whirling to face him. "How dare you!"
Syrn didn't see Wuzaxle. All he did was see Jarlaxle settle into an appropriate decorum. A fake mask. "You know why Ven is dead."
Wuzaxle raised his hand to slap Syrn again, but the Captain stopped. Jarlaxle's fingers held lightly onto his wrist, tears running down Wuzaxle's face. Wuzaxle's arm dropped and he stepped back to his grief, behind the Captain.
"You killed Ven for House Hun'ett." The Captain declared. "There is no other reason."
"You told me to kill him." Syrn hissed up at him.
Vzah's head snapped around in horror. Wuzaxle gasped, his hands coming to cover his mouth. Syrn could hear surprise come from the edges of the room he couldn't see. From the people who were gathered, yet hidden, Syrn knew there was appall. The Captain merely crossed his arms.
"Xadrar," He called softly, "take Wuzaxle to our room. He doesn't need to listen to such crazed, monstrous things."
From the shadows Xadrar stepped forward. He gently reached out to Wuzaxle, and the kinder drow wrapped his arms around Xadrar's neck. Together they stepped back into the darkness.
" You told me to kill him!" Syrn shouted again. "I did nothing for House Hun'ett. I have dedicated my life, my blade, and my death to you. Captain ."
The Captain's face did not become more grave. He did not smile. He merely kept his eye narrowed at Syrn. Then, as the noise around him died down, no one daring to speak, Jarlaxle leaned toward Syrn.
"Then you won't mind being returned to your House, a failure, will you?"
Syrn grit his teeth. He could say he was loyal again. He could plead his case. Remind Jarlaxle it was his wish that Ven be killed, not House Hun'ett's. None of it mattered though. Not one bit. Because Jarlaxle, barely a breath away, gave him such a joyous smile that Syrn knew it was useless.
"Fuck you."
Jarlaxle stood up straight, his mask snapping back into place in an instant. He looked down at Syrn with disgust. "To think we trusted you. Not just to assassinate Ven, but to accuse me of commanding it - to sow discord among Bregan D'aerthe. You are filth Syrn. And you deserve nothing except the fate of filth .
"Gag him. Then keep him tied and deliver him to his House. Let them celebrate his return. I think that will be a far greater punishment than any we can enact."
Syrn's last look at the Captain was of his back, walking away, leaving him for dead.
Time was dead to him. He couldn't tell of it being hours. Could have been days. People must have tired of him, were it a year. Had Syrn any tears left he would have wept if it had been a year. He had no tears though. No spit for his withered tongue. No piss for his abused cock. No blood for his drained veins. Not toenails. Fingernails were child's play, but toenails, and the skin on the soles of one's feet, that was a horror to have burned off.
Syrn's life was only sensations. Brief moments of clarity when someone had the opportunity to grind him. Failure was tolerated nowhere in Menzoberranzan. Failure was not tolerated in drow. Failure made you an object. It made you him.
At this very moment Syrn felt sensation around his lips. He flinched from it, from the pain of swollen skin and torn flesh. Until it was accompanied by the tart wetness of water. Not only water, but cool water. Until this second he had been forced to drink boiling.
He never thought his life would be reduced to thinking water a holy thing. A prized possession. The greatest pleasure he could have. That in itself was a torture.
Faintly, he remembered discussing with a half-blind one-handed man how long a healthy man could go without water. Three days.
The pain around his wrists, shackled to the wall, grew blindingly intense for a moment, before being replaced by a cool numbness. He felt a slickness spread over his wrist, his palms. A hand reached around his back. Then the same process, only repeated now with his ankles. As the slickness touched his festering wounds he smelled something sweet and familiar. He felt the pain there begin to fade.
More water was tipped into his mouth, and he could swallow easier. Iron washed over his tongue, down his throat, sour and so relieving. His breath came easier as a sharp medicinal taste opened his airway. Medicine. Medicine?
Syrn forced his one eye open. His vision was tinted red and milky white. He could see though, enough to notice a person holding him. He could feel his hand on his back. The man's - a man - other hand was raised in a flurry of silent hand gestures. He was speaking to someone in sign-language.
Syrn must have done something. Made some sound, or flinched, or maybe the man was so observant he noticed Syrn waking up while facing away. Suddenly, the man's gaze turned from the room to him. Two bright purple eyes looked down at him. They looked down at him with - with something - Syrn knew it, he just couldn't… place it at the moment.
The man's hand reached up, tugging down a cloth mask over his face. It was marred with scratches around his chin, long lines close together that ran up his chin, up his cheeks, to those bright purple eyes. He smiled. Syrn realized the man was looking down at him kindly. Kindly . He had almost forgotten.
"Fret not, koh , we have you."
Brother.
Syrn wished he had died.
Jarlaxle sat upon his bedside. Syrn had tried to deny himself waking, to continue to exist in that nothingness of sleep, but it hadn't worked when he was being worked upon by the torturer. It did not work now. While he lived, there was no retreat from the world.
"Good moring, bol ." Jarlaxle warmly soothed. His hand came up, a finger twinning in Syrn's hair softly. It had been washed and brushed. "Have you gotten my meaning?"
Syrn let his head fall to the side. He looked at Jarlaxle. This evil man. This plotter. A betrayer. Legendary among the Noble Houses, among Syrn's House Hun'ett. Jarlaxle was named vii drou se drou ; 'drow above drow.'
He wasn't an old man exactly. Or he did not appear it. His face was full, with plush lips, slanted cunning eyes, a feminine jaw, refined cheeks - the man's handsomeness paled in comparison to his intellect.
"How did you know?"
Jarlaxle smiled, and this was a soft knowing smile. One that felt paternal. "Oh, bol ," He soothed, "I knew the moment you came to my door."
Jarlaxle had known all this time.
"Sick bastard."
He shushed Syrn. Jarlaxle reached over and took up a warm - not boiling - warm cup of fragrant spice. He helped Syrn drink it, and Syrn did. If only to feel the warmph spread through his limbs, with the hope it was poisoned, too weak in so many ways to resist. He shivered as the drink flowed through him. What pain there had been was replaced now with numbness, or the faint echos of healing.
Jarlaxle noticed him shivering and pulled a fine blanket up higher on Syrn's chest. He patted it strongly. "Glad you are doing so well, bol . For a moment I had worried I underestimated your tenacity. Once you make your recovery, you will resume your position in Bregan D'aerthe."
Syrn had nothing else left in him to feel. He had his mind though, and he thought back. The day he'd come to Bregan D'aerthe. How Jarlaxle mentioned Syrn would fit in perfectly. The way Jarlaxle spoke of all his doings were to further Bregan D'aerthe. When he had assured Syrn that he'd make a worthy member.
"All this time?"
Jarlaxle smiled down at him. He did not smile with kindness. Knowing. He smiled with knowing. And insatiable hunger.
"Everything is for Bregan D'aerthe. You understand now, don't you?"
"Yes."
Jarlaxle gently tilted Syrn's chin up, making him look Jarlaxle in the eye. "When you are recovered you will no longer go by Syrn. Syrn Hun'ett is dead. You have scars now. You have history. You have been saved. You have a new face, a new life, a new birth, and you have a new name: Illnafein."
Seen warrior.
"Yes."
Jarlaxle leaned down and kissed him on the forehead. He was the only person to ever do that. "Good, Illnafein. You are a worthy member of Bregan D'aerthe now. Never forget that."
"I will not."
Jarlaxle happily stood from the bed. "Yes, I am quite assured of that fact. Have a speedy recovery, Illnafein. I will be waiting for you."
Alussin the senior was a beautiful drow. He was one of few who could grow a beard, and wore the rough hair close around the line of his jaw, with just a small well-groomed patch under his lower lip. In Bregan D'earthe, masculinity, not femininity, was prized dearly. He kept the left side of his head shaved, and the right side had a painfully tight looking field of braids. Alussin had the same dull golden eyes so many others did. His clothes were the regular regalia of a Bregan D'aerthe member; plain underclothes with utilitarian leathers beneath a piwifi , and sturdy boots.
True picture of manliness. An example picture of a mercenary.
"Kimmuriel, Alussin." Jarlaxle introduced, his hand presenting the bright faced, fat cheeked, and tightly wound man at his side. "Alussin," he softly called, "this is our Lieutenant Kimmuriel."
"Lieutenant." Alussin greeted, dipping his head in a respectful bow.
"He's here as my shadow, learning from me. I'd like your help in this, if you are willing."
"Of course, Captain." Alussin happily agreed.
Jarlaxle took off his eye patch. He handed it over to Alussin delicately. "Please."
Alussin looked up at Jarlaxle queerly. "Will this… be painful?"
"Only emotionally." Jarlaxle assured, laughing. "As I said Kimmuriel will simply be learning, watching, not participating. My eyepatch, if you didn't know, makes it so psionics cannot affect me. Ergo, you wearing it will ensure he cannot interfere."
Alussin shrugged and slid the eyepatch over his head. "I'd thought you were more attached to it."
"Ah, it is merely a tool." Jarlaxle replied, walking back to his desk. "Can't get too attached. They need to be replaceable afterall."
Alussin nodded his agreement, blinking his uncovered eye a few times as his vision adjusted.
"Now then; Kimmuriel." Jarlaxle clapped his hands together. "The most important lesson a leader of Bregan D'aerthe needs to learn is how to discern their members' primal disposition. You must be able to tell what a member will do when they are backed into a corner with you. One where the stakes are death, and - ah - more death."
Jarlaxle leaned back on his desk. "Alussin, would you take a blade for me?"
"Without question, Captain." He agreed.
Jarlaxle turned to Kimmuriel. "Well?"
Kimmuriel looked to Jarlaxle with disdain.
"Do you believe him?" Jarlaxle prompted, a cocky smile on his face.
Kimmuriel turned to Alussin. He frowned, his face pinching in concentration. Then he raised his hand slightly. Jarlaxle reached out and slapped his fingers.
"No. You must not use magic as a crutch. Figure it out."
Kimmuriel's face scrunched up, his nose wrinkling, and it looked so out of place on him Alussin snorted in humor.
"He mocks me." Kimmuriel growled, his teeth biting out his words.
" I mock you, being so foolish - is Alussin being truthful or not?" Jarlaxle asked.
Kimmuriel stared at him. He petulantly refused to answer.
Jarlaxle sighed, and pushed his hat upward. "Moving on then, I suppose. Alussin, will you put Bregan D'aerthe before your personal gain?"
"Yes."
"Will you put it before your safety?"
"Yes."
"Will you put it before my own safety?" Jarlaxle asked, holding a hand to his head and looking to Kimmuriel.
"Easily." Alussin responded.
Jarlaxle paused for Kimmuriel's comment. The man continued to refuse to speak. "Do you put Bregan D'aerthe ahead of your god, who that may be, your friends who they may be, and before all drow tradition?"
"Yes." Alussin observed Kimmuriel. "Is he doing well?"
"Not as well as you, clearly." Jarlaxle snidely commented. "Have those answers cleared up this lesson for you, Kimmuriel?"
Kimmuriel closed his eyes.
"Is my loyalty in question?" Alussin asked. "Do you have reason to think me a spy?"
"Not remotely, dear, no." Jarlaxle assured, jumping on his desk so that he could sit with his legs crossed. "I only meant to demonstrate a point; I as a leader must know where you will turn when your back is against the wall. I must know if you shall flee, if you shall fight, if you shall fight with me, or if you shall fight against me."
"I would fight with you, Captain." Alussin spread his hands, "I have."
"Amazingly so, my dear Alussin, truly you are a terror. One of my most prospective swordsmen, if not the most prospective. That is why it is important for me, and for Bregan D'aerthe, to understand how your loyalty works. Do you understand?"
"It is only logical."
"Very, yes. Keep thinking Kimmuriel." Jarlaxle leaned back, opening a desk draw blindly. He retrieved a stout bottle of liquor. After taking a swing he held it out. "Care for some?"
"Please." Alussin leaned forward, sharing a quick drink. It was far less potent than he expected.
"You are very likable, Alussin. Keep that in mind, Kimmuriel, he is very likable. Now, where was I?" Jarlaxle took another sip of his choice. "Ah, yes. When you are forced into an unwinnable position, Alussin, you will fight. Ven would flee. That is unacceptable. Syrn, the fool, I know will run, though he convinced even himself he would fight. I can work with that, though it is a hard lesson to teach. Alussin though, you will fight."
"He is loyal." Kimmuriel finally decided.
"Yes!" Jarlaxle declared, setting the bottle down. "But not to Bregan D'aerthe! Clearly. Were he, the man would be pissing in his boots!"
Kimmuriel glared at Jarlaxle. "You have not found him lacking in any regard. He is an exemplary fighter. His mind is smooth with calmness. By your measure, and clear observation, Alussin is a fine tool for Bregan d'aerthe."
"Mm, if only you can hold a tool in someone else's hand." Jarlaxle cryptically mused, perching his head on his fist, and his elbow on his knee.
"Alussin is a spy." Kimmuriel concluded.
"Oh, far worse." Jarlaxle grinned. "Alussin has blood ."
Alussin frowned. "Captain?"
Kimmuriel's eyebrow raised in confusion as well.
Jarlaxle spread his hands. "Alussin. Nothing comes before Bregan D'aerthe for you. Does it?"
Alussin's mouth furled into an unhappy lour.
"See Kimmuriel?" Jarlaxle snidely explained, twisting his wrist around. "He will fight. For Bregan D'aerthe yes, but not… ultimately. Am I wrong?"
Kimmuriel scowled. "Enough of your double-speak."
"Alussin has a little brother." Jarlaxle warmly said, smiling. "He has blood ."
"Drow are not loyal to blood." Kimmuriel scoffed.
"Alussin is different. Alussin actually loves his blood . Erthzyr."
Alussin stood from the chair. He took off the eyepatch. "I shall fight you to the last drop if you dare to harm a hair on my brother's head. I shall put all else aside of Bregan D'aerthe, there is nothing I would dare put before it. Nothing else, except Erthzyr. He is all I have."
"All you have - and Bregan D'aerthe." Jarlaxle concluded. He turned back to Kimmuriel. "Now do you understand?"
Kimmuriel's red eye flashed. Alussin made a choked noise, half aborted in his throat. His knees shook, and then he fell to one knee, struggling to stay up right, but failed with a whine and toppled to the floor.
"Kim!" Jarlaxle scolded, stomping over to Alussin before he started frothing at the mouth. "You are as unpredictable as a spider. What did I say about using magic?"
"Psionics are not magic." Kimmuriel defend. His lips turned as if he'd tasted something sour. "Alussin is a fool, who puts his brother's safety above his own, he wears it as a mantle of responsibility, he-"
Jarlaxle gently lifted his head into his lap. "Shut up and wake him, you ponce. If he got a concussion before his mission tomorrow I'll be quite sore with you."
"You intend to send a man who is not wholly loyal to our cause into the Baenere compound?" Kimmuriel questioned aloud, though he didn't need to.
Jarlaxle sent him back a stare, a sharp spear of warning. Without his eyepatch the two of them could converse far too quickly. He took it from the floor and slipped it on before either of them got a migraine.
Jarlaxle closed Alussin's stunned eyes. He'd give the man a minute. "We are necessary, Kimmuriel. To Alussin, Bregan D'aerthe is necessary . We keep his brother safe. He will keep him safe at all cost, and for now that cost is him depending on us. That is what you must understand - to ensure loyalty one must be indispensable. Indispensable. Sa'va ?"
"Ah… yes." Kimmuriel could understand that. "Those who are able to survive without us, shall. It is of utmost-critical importance that we are indispensable. To those who we are dispensable, those are the men who are unloyal."
Jarlaxle shrugged. "Close enough, yes. I mean, that's mostly from my personal thoughts you peeked into, but yes. Generally."
Alussin groaned, his eyes squeezing open slowly. He focused on Jarlaxle. "I don't care what you'll do to me. I will kill you all, myself, and the entire city before I let harm come to Erthzyr."
Jarlaxle patted him on the head. "I wouldn't have it any other way."