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[[ Status: Ongoing

Writers: guardianofknowledge & entreri-artemis

Setting: Icerim Mountains, Faerûn, Toril. ~1485 DR canonverse.

Notes: This is a compilation of an entire RP thread, hence it is a long post. Cover art to come at a later time. ]]

Artemis Entreri leans back in his usual chair, a corner table that offers a commanding view of the Worlds Meet tavern. He watches the few other patrons with only a passing interest. Although strange characters each and every one of them, the eccentricity of the tavern’s patrons is so consistent that the strange has become the mundane.

There never are many patrons in the Worlds Meet. Truthfully, Entreri does not know how or why the tavern bothers to stay open. He shrugs and sips his beverage, a fine example of an unknown alcohol. Such trivial details do not capture his attention for long. The irony of the establishment’s name never fails to bring a dry smile to his face. The Worlds Meet sports an incredibly ambitious name. It is a modest-sized establishment located in the middle of nowhere, or perhaps more accurately, who-knows-where, somewhere deep in the Icerim Mountains. It is one of the many buildings in the spattering of residences that he graces with the term, “town”. Despite being sturdily built to withstand the cold and harsh winds, those residences are rarely used in their intended ways, as their occupants are usually doing something in the imposing mage tower that stands in the center of the town, or out in the wilderness. None of them ever seemed interested in the assassin, which is the way Entreri prefers it. No one ever approaches him except for the occasional courier delivering his parcels.

He glances over to the bar to the figure standing behind it, polishing glasses. The bartender is about the same height as Entreri and similarly lean. In contrast to the assassin’s neatly trimmed hair, the bartender’s ebon locks cascade to waist-length, perfectly straight and untangled. In lieu of the angular features marking Entreri’s countenance, the bartender’s facial structure is soft, with a pair of almond-shaped eyes that slant upwards slightly. The assassin easily notices the female (and some male) patrons looking at the bartender a bit too much, despite their efforts to do so unobtrusively.

Entreri scowls, he has seen this “bartender” about, and not usually serving in the capacity of a bartender. In fact, this person seems to always be filling in where there is a hole, and always seemingly unintentionally becomes the focus of whatever area he inhabits. Entreri does not trust those that appear to possess boundless altruism nor such a high degree of personal magnetism. Perhaps this is just yet another one of those cases in which sanctimonious pretentious hypocrites act in ways that the assassin so despises. Entreri believes that he has heard this mysterious character hailed as “Fin”. While he is in the position of not yet having had any personal interactions with him, he has gotten the distinct impression that Fin simply does not care for Entreri whatsoever. His scowl deepens as he considers that fact. While the master assassin has rarely cared about what others think of him, Fin’s haughty, dismissive attitude is like sand caught in tight leather garb, annoying and distracting. Despite being a man who no longer cares so much for rivalries, Entreri’s experienced eyes cannot deny the potential threat evidenced by Fin’s silent steps and graceful strides. That, and the fact that Fin always wears at least a decorated and clearly well made saber visibly, further causes Entreri to feel even more wary than usual.

That last thought lingers in the assassin’s mind, and he pauses in lifting his drink to scrutinize the bartender. Fin’s curved sword is not at its usual spot on his hip, and, equally unusually his black tresses are hanging loose. While Entreri doesn’t care at all about individual’s hairstyles and chuckles internally at the thought of so caring, his eyes nevertheless move up to take in the loose fall of those black tresses. His keenly honed instincts tell him that there is some significance to their comparatively casual arrangement. In all the previous times he has seen Fin, even when such formality must have been inconvenient, his hair has always been bound formally in braids or tied back into a tail.

His scrutiny is interrupted as the door to the Worlds Meet swings open, but just as it does, or perhaps just a breath before it does, the figure behind the bar looks up and smiles. Although such is not an unusual behavior for a normal bartender, a big part of what lends Fin his dismissive quality is his stoic demeanor. In fact, the community’s residents have a running bet on who could make the enigmatic man smile first. Many a person will find themselves at the losing end of such wagers tonight. Furthermore, in that brief moment before the bartender’s gaze returns to his mundane task of polishing glasses, Entreri is alarmed to note and concerned that he did not previous notice that Fin has not been meeting anyone’s eyes throughout the night. While that might not normally generate an alarm, even in one as habitually cautious as Entreri, the simple fact is that, without Entreri’s notice, Fin’s characteristic piercing icy blue orbs have apparently been swapped out for fiery crimson ones.

While this revelation is shocking, the assassin does not have time to consider all of its implications, as any new arrival to the Worlds Meet always catches his immediate attention. He marks Fin mentally and allows his subconscious mind to start automatically updating his available offensive and defensive options should they become necessary. His primary attention instead focuses upon the newcomer entering the room, for, while he is in it, it is his domain. After all his security requires that he maintain as close to perfect knowledge, and ideally control, of his immediate surroundings as is possible.

He arches an eyebrow at the sight of the bedraggled woman entering the tavern. While he has long stopped being surprised by the strangeness of the tavern’s visitors, this latest sight triggers something akin to disbelief. So much snow had accumulated in the woman’s hair that it wouldn’t have been hard to mistake the dark color for something else. Her skin is very pale, the shade approaching the blue of her partially-frozen lips. Her limbs appear as stiff as dead branches, from her fingers down to the toes of her bare feet that are peeking out from under her dress.

Entreri shakes his head as he considers the woman’s garb. Her strangeness is on an entirely different plane from that of the rest of the populace. Before, “strange” in the tavern for Entreri appeared in the form of individuals wearing what looked like taxidermy animals displayed prominently over their chests, items resembling blacksmith’s tools mounted on pauldrons or headgear resembling metallic inverted frying pans. In all of those cases however, at least the individuals in question were covered from head to toe, more often than not in multiple layers. This latest arrival, although dressed more normally by most conventions, simply resembles a frozen corpse. The ever-cautious assassin does not immediately dismiss her as a foolhardy (and possibly vain) adventurer however, but instead leans further back, dropping his countenance further into the shadows to allow him to continue observing without being subjected to scrutiny in turn. During the time that he spends feeling incredulous about what could possibly cause someone to frolic in the barren frozen wasteland in naught more than a party dress, Entreri also notes that despite her condition, the woman does not move with the lack of coordination that would mark a person suffering from severe hypothermia.

His gaze concealed by the shadows, the assassin watches as she studies him, smirking when she quickly looks away. Despite the small amount of amusement that her reaction gave him, her attention does not sit well with him. Another consistent detail of the patrons of the tavern is that they never seem particularly interested in him, that is, except for those occasions when someone wants him to be directly involved in something.

He lets out a low growl at the thought of being so manipulated. He will not allow himself to be taken off-balance. When the woman diverts her gaze, Entreri stands and approaches her table, silent as death, and slides into the seat opposite hers. He waits until he has her attention before locking her gaze with his own.

“What are you doing here?” He asks, his voice as wintry as his gaze, both colder than the climate from which she had just escaped.

Entreri watches the woman move her still-frozen lips futilely a few times. He does well to hide his surprise when she manages to speak, without so much as a lisp at that, despite her mouth still seemingly being near to frozen solid.

Her story seems to him as preposterous as her choice of attire is for the climate. For the story to be feasible, she would have to live somewhere quite close. He knows that he does not have a perfect recollection of all the denizens of the town, however he is certain that he has not seen her face before. Additionally, while he has not verified it personally, he is aware that there are no human settlements for hundreds of miles around. The remote nature of this place, was, after all, part of its appeal. His "benefactor” clearly enjoys being far out of the way of prying eyes, manipulating hands, and, for the most part, blithering idiots, and this place achieves those goals admirably. The location possesses an additional benefit, in that it was located above a section of the Underdark inhabited by creatures so vile that even the drow would not venture there. While in theory, she could have come from that region, he feels certain that she did not.

In fact, none of those characteristics seem to deter the flock of strange characters from appearing in the remote town, though few did it as literally as this one seems to have.

He scowls at her question. Her wide-eyed expression, telling of confusion that seems genuine, only makes him angrier. He is about to warn her of the consequences of mocking him when a barmaid suddenly obscures his view as she slips a bowl of hot stew in front of the frozen woman and walks away after muttering, “compliments of the owner,” without even looking at either Jophiel or Entreri.

Entreri stares at the bowl incredulously, then lifts his gaze to Jophiel.

“What are you about?” he demands curtly.

Jophiel’s characterization of him as "inquisitive” and “curious” sets Entreri back on his heels. The assassin resists the knee-jerk response of questioning whether she is mocking him. Thankfully, her literal answer to his question quickly dispels his anger, replacing it with bewilderment. It is all he can do to not stare incredulously at her while she introduces herself.

Perhaps this strange woman was out in the cold for too long? No, that is not possible, otherwise she would not be recovering as well as she is. Her inhumanly fast recovery from severe hypothermia is yet another mystery, but it is no doubt related to this enigma that is apparently named “Jophiel”. Nonetheless, despite all of her oddities, Entreri concludes from the way that she tentatively entered the tavern to the inconspicuous seat that she chose that the woman’s priority is to maintain a low profile. He snorts to himself as he notes that she has thus far succeeded in achieving the polar opposite of being discrete.

“I am Artemis Entreri,” he replies, but rather than answering her other question, he remarks, “Everywhere that I have traveled to, the question, ‘What are you about?’ is asked of one when another wishes to know one’s intentions. In all of those places, it is neither customary nor in one’s best interest to ask another of his or her purpose in life.” He watches Jophiel closely, ready to garner information from her reaction to his words.

“She?” Entreri mouths. A goddess, one worshiped by humans, who shares his name? The assassin has never heard of such a thing. While he has never spent much time contemplating his name, it has never seemed unusual to him. He is not sure how he feels about sharing his name with a deity, and a female one at that. Should others learn of this, it might create more situations in which people force him to remove them from this existence by seeking to ridicule him. Entreri lets out a sigh at the prospect of more fruitless exercise with no reward of either entertainment or excitement.

He returns his attention to her question. “A hunter? I suppose that in a way, I am one,” he replies.

It strikes him then that the way that Jophiel pronounced the word, “humans”, was distanced and detached, perhaps even with an air of superiority. Her tone was not arrogance but something else, something beyond the note with which the prideful drow speak of the “lesser races”. That tone seems to provide a strong indication that she, despite appearing very much human, is not, in fact, human at all.

Entreri tries to come to terms with her and her far-fetched tale. Although he has already drawn his own conclusions, he nonetheless asks her, “You did not come here as a response to a request made by this 'bartender’ who sent you that oh so convenient stew?” He nods in the direction of Fin to indicate who it is he is referencing, all the while carefully monitoring her response to his pointed inquiry. His focus on her reaction almost causes him to miss the fact that all of the other patrons in the tavern have congregated about the bar and seem to be poring over something laying on the counter. His sense of bewilderment and feelings of doubt simply continue to grow, each answer and each new occurrence fueling the fires of both his curiosity, and his concern about the high apparent degree of chaos entering into his quiet little town.

Entreri snorts at the preposterous notion regarding Fin, although he himself has considered notions along the same vein. Such hypotheses were dismissed not long after, however, as Fin is simply too righteous, disgustingly so, and possesses attributes and modes of behavior that are just too human to make him anything but one. Even the most patient of creatures, the most steadfast actors, could not achieve that degree consistency in demonstrating what are, to Entreri’s sensibilities, supremely aggravating qualities. So what if his eyes change colors and he wastes time fastening and unfastening his hair into those ridiculously intricate patterns? The strange man might have magicked himself with charm spells or some other kind of cosmetic magic, especially considering how attractive he seems to all those that have proclivities towards men.

Jophiel’s words draw Entreri’s attention once more, but all they serve to accomplish is to cause the man to raise an eyebrow and look at her in bewilderment, a gesture that seems to be becoming all to common when dealing with her. The assassin shakes his head, trying to dismiss what he concludes to be an unimportant tangent, only to return to staring at the strange woman with disbelief as she yet again interprets his words all too literally.

Her query draws his eyes once again to the crowd bustling about the bar, the patrons chattering excitedly and shoving each other every now and then to get closer to whatever it is they are examining. All Entreri can see is the mass of shifting bodies from his table. He shakes his head and replies, “I know not.” He starts to rise, thinking to approach the mass and investigate, but glances at Jophiel once more. Not wishing any unknowns to be out of his scrutiny, he asks her, “Shall we go find out for ourselves the answer to your question?”

Entreri watches Jophiel incredulously as she nudges her way through the crowd gathered around the bar. Although he has not been around the woman very long, he finds it intolerable how frequently she surprises him. However, despite his resolution to regard her mannerisms and actions in a less incredulous way, the strange woman seems to be a font of abnormality. He shakes his head as he watches a gnome cry out in protest as Jophiel pushes past, her soaked garment catching and subsequently wringing out a large amount of water onto the formerly dry gnome, all the while remaining perfectly oblivious to what she has done.

The agile assassin begins to follow the unusual woman’s example of squeezing through the crowd. Even as he begins his movement towards her, he pauses as he spots an unrolled parchment spread over the bar counter through the gap between two tall patrons. Upon the parchment is drawn a detailed schematic, depicting an area much as a map would, except the area depicted suggests at an indoor space. Scribbled notes appear in almost all of the blank spaces amidst depicted structures. Some members of the gathered crowd are chattering excitedly among each other and adding to the scribbles. Everyone seems so intent upon the parchment that they pay the assassin weaving between them little heed. Even the wet gnome has all but forgotten his plight and stands on his tip-toes scrutinizing the paper with all the rest.

Entreri leans closer to the bar counter in an effort to get a better look at the scribbles, but the sound of Jophiel’s voice draws his gaze in her direction. His eyes widen as he beholds the scenario playing out before him. There is Fin, who, unlike those surrounding him, is languidly looking at the parchment until Jophiel’s greeting captures his attention. Entreri feels unease and strains to catch elements of their conversation over the bustle of those immediately around him. The disciplined assassin chastises himself for feeling unsettled, for what does he care if the strange woman offends the mysterious swordsman, or if the two somehow spark a whirlwind romance. No, Entreri reasons, it is more than that, just as there is more to Fin than meets the eye. That fact is emphasized immediately, as Entreri absorbs Fin’s abruptly changed appearance. Fin now appears in the way that Entreri is more accustomed to seeing him. Somehow, during the tumult of the crowd flocking to the bar, Fin managed to arrange his hair into his typical two long braids, hanging before his ears and a third hanging down along his spine. His attire also changed to his usual light-colored tunic and trousers, his ornate saber tied by a sash about his waist. Most disturbing of all, Fin’s eyes have returned to their customary crystalline, frigidly piercing blue. He notes that Fin’s gaze appears to hold no edge as he focuses on Jophiel.

So intent is he upon the pair that Entreri barely notices being gradually shuffled closer to them as the crowd about him pushes between one another in an effort to get closer to their map. He manages to catch the end of Jophiel’s blessing, and gapes at her as she makes her inquiry of the man behind the bar.

Fin is also looking at Jophiel curiously, raising an eyebrow ever so slightly upon her mention of her “friend”. As the dark-haired man sweeps his gaze through his patrons in an effort to identify the alluded-to individual, blue eyes lock with gray ones and both pairs narrow dangerously. The moment of revelation passes quickly and Fin breaks the stare to regard Jophiel once more, though the tension between he and the assassin remains, existing as a nearly palpable shroud floating amongst the shuffling bodies of the other patrons.

The voice that answers Jophiel is cultured and melodic. “You are quite welcome, my lady. You humble me with such thoughtful words,” Fin replies as he dips an elegant, although not exaggerated, bow.

He straightens, then leads her eyes to the parchment, continuing in a tone that almost seems reminiscent of some sort of nobility, “My fellows are perusing a map that they have drawn up of some large ruins somewhere in these mountains. They are preparing for a final expedition out to that place. We have in fact been making regular probes into the wilderness, in order to extract additional information. The very land itself has been wrought with perils aplenty, but we have finally managed to clear enough of the route to enable this final push to the heart of the site. This document delineates all the information recovered though our scouting efforts, although much remains mysterious.”

Fin looks up to meet Jophiel’s eyes again, his glinting cerulean eyes as calm as the surface of an undisturbed lake. He says nothing more, but continues to rest his attention on the woman before him, patiently waiting to respond to any further inquiries she might have for him.

By this point, Entreri has managed to find some measure of stability away from the jostling crowd. He moves closer to the pair, ducking his head and guiding himself indirectly so as not to catch Fin’s gaze again. He eventually settles into an unobtrusive spot, slightly shadowed, allowing him to better observe the exchange between the strange woman and the mysterious man. As he ensconces himself in his chair, he focuses indirectly upon the exchange betwixt the two, using a combination of near inexhaustible patience, subtlety, and cunning to fade into the background movement of the bar’s patrons.

Entreri’s eyes widen as he hears Jophiel volunteer herself and quite possibly himself as well to Fin’s expedition. He resists stepping forward to contradict the woman’s words, instead maintaining his composure and continuing to observe the exchange.

The stealthy assassin watches as Fin arches an eyebrow at Jophiel. Apparently Entreri is not the only one surprised by the woman’s unexpected suggestion, but the charismatic bartender fluidly hides his surprise in an elegant bow. “Your words have more than sufficiently expressed your gratitude for but a minor favor, my lady,” Fin replies. “We would be abusing your kindness to have you accompany us on such a treacherous journey. There are perils that we have not yet encountered but which surely exist. Furthermore, the climate in this area never changes significantly from what you have already experienced.” His expression apologetic, Fin glances briefly at Jophiel’s bare shoulder to emphasize his point before returning his eyes to meet hers again.

Entreri feels some relief. While he does not fear whatever these “perils” are that Fin speaks of, he has no desire to exert himself for the sake of one whom he dislikes, or to endure the treacherous weather for no gain. Thinking the matter settled, the vigilant assassin continues to watch, expecting the two to wrap up their short conversation with the customary pleasantries. Even as he begins to relax he suddenly realizes that he is thinking of Jophiel and customary at the same time. He then shakes his head and prepares for whatever fresh insanity will soon appear.

As Jophiel makes eye contact with him again, her expression bright and beaming, Entreri feels a deep sense of dread. He has to stop himself from groaning aloud at Jophiel’s proclamation. He does not even register the odd way in which the unusual woman phrases her question, so intently is he staring at the man behind the bar, almost hoping to project his will onto Fin to decline the woman’s “assistance”.

To the assassin’s horror, Fin simply tilts his head, studying Jophiel for a few heartbeats before bowing again. Entreri watches incredulously as Fin catches the attention of one of the oddly-dressed individuals surrounding the counter and beckons him closer. Leaning over to ensure his instructions are heard, Fin nods a few times at Jophiel as he speaks to the person he called forth. Shortly thereafter, that person departs through the door behind Fin, and the blue-eyed man regards Jophiel once more. Entreri notes that Fin does not even bother to look through the crowd as he asks the woman before him, his tone as calm and melodic as before, “Once more you are too kind, my lady. It would be improper for us to put you in harm’s way without taking at least some measure of responsibility. Do not worry, we shall provide the proper articles of clothing for you. Will your friend be accompanying us as well?”

Entreri watches the conclusion of Jophiel’s conversation with Fin incredulously, his eyes widening more when the strange woman touches the mysterious swordsman a second time. Although he has never seen Fin act in any overtly rude way, the perceptive assassin has long ago determined that the reserved Fin prefers as little physical contact as possible, based on the way that he always subtlely moves himself a half step back from others, or turns his shoulder ever so slightly to discourage another’s touch.

He meets her smile with a scowl and growls, “Will you stop mentioning your goddess that shares my name?” Realizing that his irritation is causing him to lash out about inconsequential details, he sighs. Does he have a choice in the matter? Certainly, he could stay behind while the odd Jophiel goes on a merry adventure with Fin’s ragtag team of weirdos, but somehow, the idea just does not sit comfortably with him. As much as he tries to dismiss the irritating man and his associates, Entreri cannot deny their prowess, and thus cannot suppress his intrigue. It certainly does not help that Jophiel is clearly no ordinary person, a fact demonstrated rather conclusively by her survival in the extreme climate of the Icerim Mountains. One might be able to claim that survival hinged on luck, however, luck alone could not restore thoroughly frozen flesh. Although his will is his own, he feels compelled by impulses he only barely recognizes, and they dictate his response.

Begrudgingly, he replies, “I will accompany you and… them,” he indicates the clutter at the bar with a tilt of his chin. He bites back a defiant retort of how he is not going for the sake of “hunting the unknown,” for that would not be altogether true. After all, it is the very collection of all of these apparently ever increasing foreign factors that compel him to follow a path that he would normally have left untrodden.

Entreri waves away Jophiel’s apology, the matter truly inconsequential to him, and he is eager to move past his momentary lapse of self-control. He snorts at her following admission, the degree of understatement in her words so preposterous that his lingering discomfort from earlier is completely chased away. He watches the strange woman lean back and attempt to settle into her chair. Her front does not fool the perceptive man in the least. However, although he can clearly discern an inner conflict of no small degree in her eyes, he cannot begin to guess the nature of her troubles, and finds himself more than a little unsettled by that realization. Given her behavior, it would be easy to categorize her as an addled person suffering from a pervasive delusion. However, Entreri’s sharp instincts warn him of the folly of believing such a simple explanation. He sighs helplessly at the inconveniences imposed by his unflagging tendency towards constant vigilance. Her next words cause him to question whether she is actively attempting to elicit as many different reactions from him as possible within the least amount of time. Each of her statements standalone would have had him blinking in surprise, raising an eyebrow, scoffing or scowling, respectively. All jumbled together, spouted at him without giving him a chance to get a word in edgewise, Jophiel’s comments have the bewildered assassin staring back at her incredulously, and it takes him a few heartbeats to fully process her query. Entreri had forgotten about the earlier silent exchange between himself and Fin. Normally, he is not given to dwell on his dislike for another, especially since he is a misanthrope and thus often finds himself disliking most of the other people that he meets. There was nothing meaningful in the disapproving look that the two men had thrown at one another other than to express their mutual distaste for each other, and surely Jophiel would not need something as basic as that explained to her. However, when Entreri looks upon his companion’s face, only to behold eager and sparkling eyes full of anticipation, he almost groans aloud. Sighing, the resigned man replies, “The 'tavern owner’ and I are not fond of one another. I am displeased by his presence, as he is by mine, but as it would be unwise for either of us to ignore the other outright, we acknowledge each other with our least friendly glances.” The assassin finds himself surprised at his own words, for through speaking them aloud he experiences a revelation. So thoroughly conditioned to being tuned to all potential threats about him that Entreri had stopped consciously registering the significance behind his allotment of attention to Fin. When he had first encountered the other swordsman, he had acted with great care and constantly calculated his potential opponent’s actions. However, Fin had never moved against him, even putting himself into vulnerable positions easily exploitable by the assassin. With no reason to attack the other, Entreri had accepted an uncomfortable co-existence. Despite his belief that the long-haired swordsman is a fop, he nonetheless recognizes the foolishness in not giving the other some measure of respect, albeit begrudgingly. The strangely-clad individual from earlier brushes by the assassin, causing the ever-wary man’s hands to reflexively fly to the hilts of his weapons. However, he is ignored by the individual, who is carrying a bundle of various items. Entreri watches with disbelief as the person drops thick articles of clothing into Jophiel’s lap, not even waiting for the woman to put up her arms to more properly accept the items. After thick pants, several shirts, furs, and a heavy hooded cloak are dropped into the woman’s lap, Entreri hears the tell-tale clunk of heels landing against the wooden floor as a pair of tall boots are dropped beside Jophiel’s seat. A pack, a bedroll, stick-like objects and various other gear are then stacked on the table in between the assassin and his companion, and it is Entreri’s quick reaction in shooting his arm forward that stops the precariously balanced pile of objects from toppling over and mingling with their beverages. Growling in annoyance, the assassin looks in the direction that the deliverer of the items has gone, only to see that the individual in question has all but vanished into the crowd still gathered at the bar. Sighing yet again, he balances the items, and peers around the pile at the woman across from him. “I hope that you are not getting yourself into more than you bargained for,” he states flatly, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

The way that Jophiel looks at some of the objects dumped onto her gives Entreri the distinct impression that the woman has never used such items before. He glances again to the precariously balanced pile, and discerns nothing too out of the ordinary, certainly not at all for inhabitants of the area. Again, the assassin finds his mind returning to the enigma of how his strange companion arrived, clad only in her threadbare dress after apparently wandering barefoot in the snow-covered lands until finding the tavern. It is almost as if something had dropped her out of the sky right into the center of the wintry clime, but of course, that hardly made sense. Perhaps she had traveled on the back of a griffon or some other sort of benevolent creature capable of flight, however such creatures tend to avoid environments in which the air is so thin that flying is rendered extremely laborious. Perhaps instead she came on the back of a dragon, he thought, then snorted at the idea. True, he has had experience with riding on the back of a dragon once, but the circumstances that led to that incident were unique indeed and he very much doubts that any dragon except perhaps the feral whites would be amenable to flying through the frigid winds over these mountains. That leaves the possibility that she had flown here herself, most likely through the use of wizardly magic, which dissipated as she reached near where she crashed into the snow. Direct teleportation nearby was impossible, Entreri knows, for he had heard of the powerful wards against such external magics in the area.

He frowns at all this thought of magic’s unpredictability, and returns his attention to Jophiel, only to look away again politely as she obliviously pulled on the pants under her damp dress. He starts to question her about the wisdom of pulling on dry clothing underneath cold and wet clothing, but quickly decides against it, not putting it past the unorthodox woman to “rectify” the problem should he point it out to her. As engrossed as the group by the bar is, Entreri somehow doubts that they would fail to notice the spectacle of a woman striping bare in their midst, and he especially does not want to be deemed somehow responsible for such a display.

At Jophiel’s question, Entreri sighs in resignation and patiently begins to sort through the objects. “It depends on the specifics of the trip, but given the climate here, most of these items are necessary to make any sort of venture into the wilds,” he replies as he sets aside the cloak, furs, bedroll and backpack, figuring that the purposes of these items to be self-explanatory enough. He picks up a pair of large, oval-shaped hardwood frames laced with rawhide and shakes his head, hardly believing that he is explaining the use of these objects that he himself has yet to use. “There are many areas out there in which deep and frequent snowfall bars normal means of passage. It seems that this expedition intends to travel through such lands, hence the snowshoes.” Entreri shrugs and gestures to the long stick-like poles before continuing, “I’ve seen those used to help maneuver around while wearing the awkward nets that pass for 'shoes’.” His voice takes on a note of distaste, for to the agile man, the snowshoes and poles are little more than hindrances.

Fixing a piercing gaze upon Jophiel, Entreri asks, “Exactly where did you come from?”

Entreri keeps Jophiel waiting for an uncomfortable period of time, the expression on his angular visage unreadable. His jaw had gone slack earlier, and his mouth almost fell open, however, the already strange woman’s eccentricity had risen even further, to such a point that the assassin’s instincts warned him of potential danger. The wary man felt an impulse to allow his hands to drift towards his weapons, however he mastered this urge and continued to listen.

He had been edging towards finding his odd companion’s mannerisms amusing. His keen hearing granted him the ability to detect her muttered words, and he was considering offering her the snarky suggestion that she could repair her torn garment and display it as an example of what one might wear to the tavern in order to enjoy complimentary food and drink. However, when she broke eye contact and ducked to pull on a boot, the interruption robbed Entreri of his fleeting desire. Even had he not left his younger and more aggressive self behind a lifetime ago, Jophiel’s subsequent behavior would have returned some good humor to him. The concentrated consternation that appeared on her face and her swift surveys of her surroundings, crude, careless assessments when seen by the eyes of an expert observer like Entreri, brought a half-smirk to the assassin’s countenance. He suppressed a snort at her admission of her origins, as given her odd mannerisms it would be unfathomable for her to be from anywhere but “far from here.” Even her hint towards the extent of her age was conceivable, for although Jophiel appears to be a full-blooded human of twenty some years, she could very well not be. Entreri knows personally how deceptive one’s appearances can be with regards to one’s age, but his own circumstances are very unusual. Jophiel could easily be a descendant of elven heritage whose blood had been diluted enough by other races that she no longer has the pointed ears or the lithe frame of the fairer folk but still possess some measure of their famed longevity.

What followed of her tale had the worldly man subconsciously leaning forward in his seat. While “realm” could mean something as simple as different kingdoms of Faerûn, it very well might refer to different planes of existence altogether. Given Jophiel’s disposition towards the literal, Entreri suspected that she was actually referencing an alternate plane of existence. The creatures from other realms that he had encountered did not look like her, nor did they tend to look human at all, unless they purposely employed illusionary magics to better beguile the hearts of men. This was the first point at which Entreri’s instincts raised an alarm, but he dismissed the warning with the reasoning that it would be counterproductive for a being to go through the trouble of disguising its nature only to so readily disclose it to the first person that it met. He continued to listen while observing Jophiel carefully, noting her ire as she spoke of her brother’s treachery. While the crease in her brow could have been feigned, Entreri saw a blaze flare in her eyes and knew that her anger was genuine. He intellectually understood that what had befallen her was tragic and that social customs warranted a sympathetic statement from the listener. Even being aware of this, he still had no kind words to offer her. Although he had no siblings of his own, the assassin is intimately familiar with the fact that those kept closest to one’s heart also hold the greatest power to harm. He understood Jophiel’s brother’s actions all too well, and likely the only thing that he would have done differently were he in Metatron’s position would have been to ensure that Jophiel and the others would not be alive to speak of what happened. He did snort aloud when he imagined the expression on Jophiel’s face if he had related his thoughts to her. It was fortunate timing that she had just finished quoting the adage that he did not fully comprehend, but he was able to extrapolate enough of its meaning to feel gratitude in addition to chagrin at his own uncontrolled vocalization.

His smirk faded quickly thereafter, not to return. As her story became more outlandish, so too, grew an urge within him to simply stand up and walk away from her. However, his meticulous attention to detail and no small measure of intrigue kept him in his seat. As she spoke of magic, he groaned inwardly and wished that he could simply dismiss her wild tale as the ramblings of a madwoman. He wanted her to stop spouting more words that injected new complexities into his life with every additional syllable, but he could also not deny that each tidbit of information could potentially be valuable to him. He had not stopped her when she leaned forward, even though it made the two of them as close and conspicuous as a pair of amateur conspirators, because he knew that all whom might have quirked an eyebrow at them were still too fixated on the bar to turn their eyes elsewhere.

Entreri had slowly leaned back into his chair when Jophiel finished speaking. Finally, after staring unblinkingly into his companion’s eyes for he knows not how long, the assassin parts his lips to pose his question. He pauses, however, for he knows not what to ask. In truth, there are many things he wishes or even needs to know. However, a request for her to validate her claim would, in the least dramatic scenario, probably draw undesired attention to himself, if she is in fact what she claims to be. He wants to decline her request, for he has little desire to become enmeshed in the machinations of angels and demons regardless of their realms of origin. Adding to the chaos already raging in his head is the difficulty of phrasing his thoughts in a manner to effectively communicate his meaning to Jophiel. Entreri feels as though his skull is about to split apart, and he massages his throbbing temple. The confounded man manages to pull from the turmoil in his mind a question that is at once simple and straightforward. Absent of the angry, fearful or whining undertones that such a question usually carries, Entreri simply asks, “Why me?”

Jophiel’s logic has Entreri rocking back into his seat, both eyebrows raised in disbelief. “'What do you have to lose?’ is hardly a sufficient reason when requesting a service of someone. If you are truly what you say you are, then you have never needed to concern yourself with the mundane mortal concept of wasting time!” the assassin retorts, but then pauses as he digests his own words. His formative years had been spent making every passing heartbeat count, all the while keenly aware of the limited time available to a member of the human race. He had achieved a level of physical prowess in his first two decades of life that most members of longer-lived races could not have achieved in centuries. He had known his own powerlessness to stop the passage of years that would have inevitably stripped away every piece of the capabilities that he had painstakingly built up. He once thought that his life would end when the inexorable flow of time, after sweeping away the last measure of his dexterity, finally seeped into the final remaining acuity of his mind and dissolved it from within. Thus, with the loss of his acumen, his degenerated body would find its end.

However, time had stopped for the assassin, though he knows not for how long. An intolerable amount of time had been stolen from him, and while his enslavement surely wore at his soul, he neither appears to have nor feels like he has physically aged a single day. Entreri smiles self-deprecatingly as he is reminded again of how little in fact there is for him to lose. As far as he knows, he and Jophiel are not so much unalike, for loss of days is meaningless when they have an infinite amount of years before them. The assassin’s lips part, lending a wistfulness to his faint smile as he ponders what kind of foe it would take to finally grant him true death. Entreri hopes that his final confrontation will be at least somewhat interesting.

Shaking his head, the resigned man accedes, “I do not have much to lose. I also am not in need of money, which is fortunate for you as you cannot grant remuneration anyway.” Before Jophiel can get too excited by mistaking his admissions for agreement, Entreri adds, “However, I do not enjoy tromping through the snow, nor do I relish contending against the frigid winds for every breath. I do not find sport in battling beasts of the wilds and I most certainly do not derive any pleasure from digging for the chamberpots of people long dead. If you must have my company on this expedition, you will have to tell me more about what, exactly, the 'more valuable benefits’ that you offer entail.” The assassin folds his arms and leans back in his chair, cocking his head slightly to indicate his willingness to tolerate a long and detailed response.

The stunned man regards the woman who is not merely a woman with a blank stare. "Cupcakes,” he echoes hollowly before shaking his head to rouse himself from the daze that was imposed upon him by his companion’s words. The archangel, if that is indeed what she is, promises great feats the likes of which would be spectacular on their own and nothing short of miraculous all together. An ordinary man, be he human or otherwise, upon confirming the unusual woman’s words, would likely be brought to a state of religious frenzy or even worship. Artemis Entreri is, however, no ordinary man.

To the jaded and time-worn assassin, the greatest of Jophiel’s possible boons brings a wince to his face. The implacable grip of death was not pleasant to experience, and the vague sense of disembodiment that followed his soul being torn from his body was worse. Despite catching a glimpse of the grim eternity that awaited one such as he whom refused to worship any god, Entreri was ready to embrace oblivion. It would have been preferable to the torture that Alegni enacted upon him by wrenching his soul back from the afterlife and forcing it into his shattered body. His cruel Netherese master derived special joy from reviving him in a broken state, as though whenever he died, he had committed a deliberate act of rebellion and had to be punished for it. Too many times was he denied the endlessness of the eternal embrace of the dark. Entreri is not certain that he would care to experience anymore resurrections, even ones that are a thousandfold more pleasant than the ones that he has known. Infinitely worse than knowing what awaits him beyond the grave is being led to believe that it may not be inescapable. His tormentor knew that the greatest torture is the heightening of hope for the sole reason of dashing it away. Such anguish was inflicted upon the assassin until he did not think that he knew how to hope anymore, but distressingly, that part of him that he could not control held onto the knowledge. For most people, the stubbornness might be extolled as an exemplary demonstration of the strength of their will. For the favorite slave of the tiefling warlord Herzgo Alegni, it was but yet one additional tool for his imprisoner to exploit.

His thoughts cast such a dark cloud over his consciousness that the normally keen man almost misses the unusual ways in which his companion suddenly and sporadically pauses, a behavior that is strange even for her. He has the distinct impression that it is as though she were talking to an invisible third party, and he has to resist the instinct to look over his own shoulder. Despite his brooding thoughts, Entreri, as always, maintains a none-too-basic level of monitoring of his surroundings, and has detected no warning signs from his environment. Regardless, he curses himself for lapsing so deeply into his own mind that he caught only the fact that she was pausing erratically. Having missed the fine details he normally absorbs he is forced by his own failure to proceed based only upon his educated guesses.

Carefully concentrating on Jophiel’s other examples so as to not trigger the consuming dark memories again, the assassin considers the self-proclaimed archangel’s list. Her account, while impressive, does not strike him as useful when applied to himself. While a healer is always important, if not downright crucial, to have on hand as an adventurer or wayfarer, Entreri is not eager to pursue either of those two paths. Were he a foolish zealot who was interested in making war on the rival deity of his patron, that would have been one matter, but the worldly man barely even acknowledges the existence of the divines. He has little interest in flying, other than as an efficient means of transport. While riding on the back of a bronze dragon made a journey that would have lasted several tendays into an afternoon jaunt, Jophiel is no dragon, and the thought of being carried in her human arms while she soared through the air makes Entreri more than a little uncomfortable. Her lack of need for sleep sounds more like a bother than a boon, and especially if she did intend to watch over him while he slept. While there are practical benefits to having anyone keep watch while he sleeps, the assassin knows that he does not trust Jophiel well enough to even consider embracing sleep whilst she “protects” him. Besides, no words come to his mind to describe the spectacle of one person doing nothing but watching another sleep other than “creepy”. Finally, having always made his own way, the self-sufficient man does not fancy receiving hand-outs. In fact, the thought of spending battles as a useless ornament that hides behind another’s figurative coat-tails makes him think of some of Jarlaxle’s actions, which nearly makes him ill.

More than anything else however, he is weary and does not wish to become entangled in some sort of elaborate scheme involving the gods of this world or any other. Entreri opens his mouth to decline, but pauses as he senses a fluctuation in the tempo of the buzzing commotion by the bar. Closing his mouth, the assassin adopts a neutral expression, gazing past Jophiel at the lithe figure that has begun weaving through the crowd towards them. To Entreri’s surprise, despite having been the orchestrator for the conference at the bar, the “bartender” Fin garners little notice as he slips between the tightly-pressed bodies. Moving with a dancer’s balanced grace and a seasoned warrior’s sureness of step, the long-haired man again reminds the assassin of elvenkind. He stops a pace before them and inclines his head at Jophiel. “My lady, forgive my presumption, but I foresaw that you might encounter difficulty convincing your friend to join you on our expedition,” Fin states courteously, his tone not shifting at all, neither when he pronounces the word, “friend” nor when the assassin’s glare hardens at his usage of the word. Looking up with a ghost of a smile on his fine features, he continues, “Hence, I thought it fit to mention this: while some of our party undertake this perilous journey for the acquisition of hoary knowledge that has been thought long gone, there are more tangible rewards awaiting others that are not interested in studying the script of the ancients. I speak of treasures, and more importantly, armaments forged in potent magicks unpracticed for millennia, on the order of legends such as Dornavver, Sarghathuld and the Crescent Blade. As my lady does not seem to be from Faerûn, the blades that I name are potent relics of history–” without pausing, but turning to stare directly into Entreri’s flinty gaze, the blue-eyed man continues to address Jophiel, “–rare specimens that can kill with but a single cut or grant powers to their wielders that they would not otherwise possess.” Fin’s clear blue eyes cloud briefly with something between rage, indignation and disgust, but the storm passes before his gaze finds Jophiel’s eyes again. “I believe that someone as distinguished as your friend would have ample knowledge on these types of weapons, so I shall leave you to seek further knowledge from him if you so desire. Now, please, if you’ll excuse me, I must be getting back…” he trails off, bows and turns, quickly assimilating into the crowd, even as the assassin’s steely stare bores a hole into his retreating back.

Entreri’s scowl softens somewhat as he looks back to Jophiel while he digests this newest piece of information. To say that the Calishite assassin did not appreciate the obviousness of the bait set for him would be an understatement, yet, to his chagrin, it remains an effective lure. Regardless of what Jophiel promised, his security is only as good as his blades, and the well-crafted, albeit otherwise mundane, sword at his side is no replacement for thrice-cursed Claw. To buy himself more time to think rather than out of any real interest in hearing her response, Entreri asks his companion, “Your thoughts?”

So unexpectedly ludicrous is Jophiel’s response to his question that the pensive man’s contemplation is shattered. Unhappy and realizing that he should not have tried to predict the incomprehensible woman’s behavior, Entreri shakes his head with frustration while waving his hand as if he could fan away the nonsense she has produced. In an firm and exasperated tone, he explains, "No, you are very mistaken. There is no significance in the way that he addressed you, other than perhaps to mark him as a man who abides by the rules of civility. I know not what the protocols of courtesy are where you come from, but throughout Faerûn, ‘my lady’ is the polite means of addressing a female.” The assassin smirks and nearly, out of habit, appends a snarky remark, but reminds himself who he is speaking to, and refrains.

Resigned to having to present his logic in a methodical way, Entreri continues, “Had Fin been anything other than a stiffly formal individual, he could have addressed you as ‘skirt’, ‘wench’, ‘lass’, or any number of things, depending on exactly what he is. In none of those cases would he believe, assuming that he is sound of mind,” the assassin pauses briefly as if to draw a breath, but in reality he begrudgingly adds to himself, Which he is, as much as I would like to think him otherwise. Exhaling, the worldly man thinks to finish his explanation with, “That you are a piece of clothing, a prostitute, or a…” and here he finds that he needs to pause again, as he realizes that he does not know the origins of the last example. Nonetheless, he nonchalantly dismisses the halt with another wave of his hand. As though the break in his explanation was intended, the assassin concludes smoothly, “‘My lady’ has little more meaning than any other honorifics which people use to address one another.” He begins to ask her if she understands him, but quickly catches himself. Instead, he settles for a leveling a ponderous stare at her, his lack of desire to further discuss what he feels to be an utterly trivial topic asserting itself through his gaze, as he subconsciously hopes that the gravity of his look will be enough to weigh down any further inquiries.

Despite the heaviness of his stare, Entreri waits silently for several heartbeats, as if he were prepared to entertain any further questions his companion might have. Judging his timing so that he speaks before any forthcoming questions would be asked, the assassin addresses the second part of the supposed archangel’s query. Smirking, he states, “I applaud your improved bargaining skills. Finally, you present a deal of substance that I am willing to consider.” Folding his arms, he tilts his chin slightly to affect a thoughtful pose, seeming to ponder her offer when in actuality he wonders about his own ability to fulfill his end of the proposed contract. Even with his limited knowledge of magic, the assassin understands that the sort of task Jophiel requests would require a magic-wielder of no small skill. While he had heard of realms-walking, it is a practice that is difficult enough to achieve that few dare attempt it other than the reckless and the extremely powerful.

The assassin’s thoughtful countenance is nearly broken by a smirk as he considers simply telling the “archangel” of Elminster and pointing her in the general direction of Shadowdale. He has no idea how she would get there and in truth cares little about the matter, it is simply sufficient that the Dalelands are far enough away that any magical entanglements that she might get herself into would be quite removed from him. A sobering realization salvages the solemnity of his visage as the assassin imagines the unjaded woman leaving behind an information trail that would lead right back to him. He had taken painstaking measures to make himself difficult to find, enduring the disagreeable clime and the stranger than usual folk that inhabit the area. It is a safe enough haven, with the prohibitive altitude and weather keeping away seekers from above ground and underground tunnels filled with creatures that even the drow consider vile dissuading callers from below. Entreri is not presumptuous enough to think that the legendary Old Mage would pay even a small measure of mind to what in his eyes would no doubt just be another insignificant rogue. However, the practical man has never feared the attentions of eminent characters of the caliber of Elminster. Ironically, he is more concerned about beings that the Sage of Shadowdale could no doubt decimate with but a thought. Yet it was these ebony-skinned creatures with their insatiable thirst for revenge that drove his flight from the warmer climes of familiar lands. As problematic as Jophiel may prove to be, he could not have her inadvertently lead the drow to him. At least she seems uninterested in taking his life, whether she does so accidentally will just have to be a chance that he will take.

Hardly satisfied with his decision and feeling none too pleased with the lack of solidity of the proposed contract, Entreri drops his arms to his sides and shakes his head with frustration. “I cannot guarantee that I will be able to deliver you to someone who is capable of performing the deed that you require,” he admits, a note of self-disgust in his voice. “And I do not see how you would ‘help’ me secure anything, as they may not even exist. Even if they did, all who participates in the expedition have equal claim to whatever we may find. What can you do, other than afford me an extra share by yielding your part of the claim to the findings to me?”

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