The Year of Dwarvenkind Reborn
1488 Dalereckoning
A quaggoth? In Waterdeep?
Like so many other onlookers, the assassin stares after the hulking bestial blueish/white-furred form, finding it somewhat disturbing that such a creature walked upright on two legs. The gawking merchants’ mouths freze in the shape of their most recently spoken syllable of ware-hawking. The startled citizenry stops in their tracks, their urgent businesses temporarily forgotten. Even the normally unflappable nobles gape, their heads sticking crassly out of their carriage windows. Would-be adventurers stare, hands tightening around the hilts of their peace-tied weapons.
In contrast, the gaze of the world-renowned assassin, Artemis Entreri, focuses on the diminutive figure walking alongside the creature, but not because he had arranged for a “distraction”.
Under normal, quaggoth-lacking circumstances, perhaps the woman would've turned a few heads, clad as she is in a very peculiar robe, but the bustling rhythm of the City of Splendors would hardly deign her worthy to spare more than perhaps a comment here and there about increasingly strange fashion trends. To most onlookers, the woman's robe, covered with eye-like patterns, might appear garish, odd, or perhaps even ingenious to some.
To Entreri, however, it is a difficult article to look upon, for each time his eyes alight on any of the robe's adornments, he feels as though the adornment stares back at him, tracking him even as he subconsciously takes another step further into the shadows of the alleyway from which he watches.
More concerning than the troubling article of clothing however is that he recognizes the woman, a recognition that grew from a casual notice, surmounting disbelief, transforming into disconcerting conviction. Upon first seeing the pair, Entreri knew immediately that they were the same as the female human and quaggoth members of the odd party that he and Jarlaxle had encountered as they were making their harrowing journey away from Menzoberranzan following the destruction of Demogorgon. It made sense to him immediately that they were the very same two persona, for quaggoths were brutish creatures native to the Underdark that more often served as slaves rather than companions, and he doubted that another human woman and quaggoth pair walked together as friends anywhere. But what were they doing in Waterdeep, in its North Ward yet? What is a quaggoth doing, strolling free in a high-brow area of a civilized city, one in which even human commoners seldom tread, except in the capacity of servants? And why is the Watch regarding the spectacle with nary more than clenched jaws and tensed muscles?
After they'd reached the safety of Luskan, Jarlaxle had explained to Entreri that the ragtag cadre that they'd encountered by chance were none other than the "heroes" who were to be celebrated in Gauntlgrym for their part in sending the Demon Lords back to the Abyss. As such, Gauntlgrym was the last place that Entreri had wanted to go, drow, demons, and anything reminiscent of the nightmarish descent back into the Underdark be damned. He thought that those celebrations would keep those so-called heroes occupied for a while, that Waterdeep would allow him to immerse himself in the familiar, if not comforting, affairs of humans and humans alone, but there they are, a woman and a beast straight out of a memory he would've liked to put well behind himself.
Part of him wishes to set off in the opposite direction, to get as far away from the unpleasant reminder as he can. Unfortunately, his too-well conditioned wariness bids him to follow, for the greatest safety is found in keeping abreast of the greatest threat. Feeling slightly ridiculous to be so put off by a mere garment, the seasoned assassin nonetheless weaves through the crowd, careful to always put a cart, a stall, or another body between himself and the robe's line of sight. Realizing that he can't wholly avoid all of the "eyes" without also losing his quarry, Entreri focuses on evading the average of their "gazes" and hopes that the city's tumult will sufficiently distract from the ones that he does not fully avoid.
Just as he's beginning to get comfortable with the atypical movement that this garment has imposed upon him, the scent of fresh roasted meat tickles his nose. The people around him pause to sniff appreciatively, but Entreri's heart sinks, for so, too does the quaggoth sniff at the air. The assassin curses to himself and hastily steps into the shadow of a nearby overhang, chastising himself for underestimating the ever-shifting variables defining the Crown of the North.
[[ Closed starter @albasdragons. ]]