An illithid affair brings Jarlaxle to Artemis' door. What ensues next is as unpredictable as anything involving these two is wont to be. Set after the events of "Hero". Despite the suggestive nature of the title, this fic is very far from porn.
[[ I didn’t think that I’d be able to write a story again, here, after all that’s happened. I randomly remembered one of the many threads that I did with @jarlaxlebaenre that wouldn’t leave my mind after it came back to me. Before, I’d wanted to make a lot of my threads into fics, and wasn’t able to, but with the continual support of amazing people, I’m finding my footing again and am using this as a good place to start to get back into things.
Special shout-out to @d-lishtasytheatre who made the art I’m using for the cover of my fic and the original RP thread, which is compiled below. The name of an OC that was involved in another of @jarlaxlebaenre’s threads was changed for the purpose of the fic. Cut for spoilers. ]]
*knock knock*
Entreri opens his door and raises an eyebrow as he beholds the drow before him. “Well played, Jarlaxle. You were the last person that I’d expect to knock at my door,” the assassin greets dryly. “Do tell, how it is that you finally have realized that I do not appreciate your barging in to my space uninvited? Was it the numerous times that I’ve informed you not-so-subtlety of my preferences? Or perhaps the plethora of traps that I’ve laid to dissuade you from your lack of respect for my personal space?”
Jarlaxle does not appear to hear the assassin’s jape as he strolls past the man into the room. Vacantly, he falls into a chair.
Entreri sighs at the mercenary’s characteristic disregard. “Do come in and sit down,” he states sardonically as he closes the door behind them. Fixing Jarlaxle with a wintry stare, the assassin asks, “What are you about now?”
Jarlaxle looks up at the dour human and grins crookedly.
“I was just thinking that I should pay my good friend Artemis a visit!”
Entreri folds his arms before his chest and his lips draw together in a thin line.
Jarlaxle continues to smile charmingly up at the assassin.
Entreri continues to stare icily down at the mercenary.
Jarlaxle’s handsome features twitch slightly under Entreri’s unrelenting glare. The mercenary clears his throat, then asks, “Might I stay with you for a few nights?”
Entreri’s eyes narrow dangerously as he repeats his earlier question, “What are you about?”
Jarlaxle sighs and stops smiling.
“Nothing, my distrustful friend. It is as I’ve said: I need a place to stay for a few nights.”
Entreri eyes the mercenary suspiciously. His voice dripping with sarcasm, the assassin asks, “Inns suddenly too good for your coin?”
Face somber, Jarlaxle replies, “Nay, it has nothing to do with coin. Inns are unable to shelter me from-” he pauses and shudders.
Rarely has the assassin seen the mercenary leader so unnerved. Intrigue chases the annoyance out of his voice as he asks, “From what?”
“Vikarillith,” the mercenary replies with another shudder.
Entreri furrows his brow. The word certainly isn’t Common, and to his knowledge, it isn’t drow either. Shaking his head, he states with exasperation, “You’ll have to elaborate, for unlike your pet psionicist I cannot read your mind.”
Jarlaxle stares at Entreri forlornly.
“Vikarillith is an illithid. I first encountered it in one of my sitting rooms. It then followed me, all the way to my bedroom…” his voice trails off.
The assassin’s arms drop to his sides as his eyes widen in shock. His surprise only lasts a heartbeat though before his features twist into a mask of rage. Seizing the drow by the front of his vest, Entreri shouts in Jarlaxle’s face, “You are hunted by an illithid and you thought it wise to lure it here to me?!”
Jarlaxle smiles weakly as he tries to push Entreri’s hands off of his vest.
“Peace, my abbil. It isn’t what you think.”
Sneering and not releasing his grip, the assassin replies bitingly, "You’re absolutely right. Knowing you, it’s much worse. Let me guess: your underlings are trying to overthrow you again, except this time, they’ve enlisted the help of an illithid.”
Jarlaxle blinks a few times, then bursts into laughter. ”Gods, no, nothing like that.”
The mercenary’s mirth abruptly ends. “At least, not literally.”
Entreri stares incredulously at Jarlaxle as the mercenary’s moods shift more quickly than ice turning to water in dragon’s breath. “Not ‘literally’? What exactly do you mean?” The assassin shakes his head and releases the drow. He falls onto his bed facing his uninvited guest. “No more games, Jarlaxle. Tell me, or leave,” the perplexed man bids.
Jarlaxle heaves a great sigh, then remorsefully replies, “I bedded an illithid. Kimmuriel seems to derive an overt amount of enjoyment from reminding me of the horrors of that experience. I fear that he may go so far as to orchestrate additional meetings between myself and mind flayers. I thought that perhaps your presence near me would dissuade him from seeking me out, given the… mutual dislike you two share.”
Entreri’s expression reflects a mixture of disbelief and disgust. He stares wordlessly at Jarlaxle for several long breaths. Then, wearing a grimace, he lifts one arm and points directly at the door. “Out,” the assassin hisses.
Although he initially reels back in shock at the human’s coldness, the mercenary leader quickly recovers.
“I don’t think so,” Jarlaxle says with a snarl.
Entreri blinks incredulously. His disbelief quickly turns into anger however in the face of the mercenary’s animosity. Sneering, the assassin returns, “That’s not your decision to make.”
Jarlaxle glares at Entreri with the wild eyes of a cornered beast.
“I am not leaving,” he growls as he snaps his wrist, dropping a dagger from his enchanted bracer into his hand.
Entreri’s jaw would have dropped open had he not been clenching it in his anger. He glowers at Jarlaxle for a few more heartbeats before he rises and walks towards the door. Not bothering to look at the drow along the way, the assassin states icily, “As you wish.”
Jarlaxle throws the dagger just to the side of Entreri, so that it will fly past his face and hit the door in front of him.
The dagger whistles past, narrowly avoiding cutting open Entreri’s cheek as it buries its blade deep within the door with a decisive “thunk”. The assassin slowly turns to face the mercenary once more, scowling deeply. Despite knowing that the precision of the throw was no accident, the knowledge does not stymy the angry man’s mounting rage. His weapons fly into his hands as he drops into a defensive crouch, his voice deathly calm when he asks, “Have you gone mad?”
Jarlaxle ignores Entreri’s question and states matter-of-factly, “You are staying with me.” He snaps his wrist again and a new dagger drops into his waiting hand.
While he might normally have felt bewilderment at the strangeness of the Jarlaxle’s assertion, his anger instead causes Entreri to react with defiance. “Is that so?” the assassin sneers as he advances upon the mercenary.
Jarlaxle leaps to his feet and hops onto the chair that he had been sitting in a moment before. He sets one foot on the back of the chair and uses it to kick himself backwards in a somersault. As the chair follows its downward momentum, Jarlaxle kicks it to flip it into the air and sail towards the advancing Entreri.
For all of his agility, the assassin only manages to marginally dodge the chair flying at his face, grimacing as it crashes into the wall. He quickly glances around for a means to retaliate, his gaze settling on the only other piece of movable object in the sparsely furnished room. He alters his course from charging directly at the drow to heading for the table in the center of the room.
Jarlaxle grins, although his expression is more devilish than mirthful, and he cries, “Oh no you don’t!” With that, he sends a stream of daggers towards Entreri.
Entreri dodges the first dagger, deflects the second and picks off the third, but realizes even before the fourth and fifth tear open first his shirt and then his skin that he will inevitably lose, especially within the confined space of the room. Furthermore, it certainly doesn’t help that more than half of Jarlaxle’s flying daggers are illusions, but he has no way of telling the solid apart from the illusory.
He manages to parry his way through the stream of steel to the table, which he flips onto its side. He ducks against what he knows is the temporary shelter provided by the thin sheet of wood. As the continuous chain of daggers thunk against the table’s surface, some deflecting off the edge to bury themselves in the floor beside him, Entreri looks to the nearby bed, an idea forming in his mind.
After some time of barraging Entreri’s makeshift barrier, Jarlaxle pauses, a dagger at the ready. He curiously studies the upturned table, behind which he knows the assassin is hiding. Puzzled by the stillness of the scene, Jarlaxle draws out one of his many wands and carefully approaches the table.
“Do you yield at last, my friend?” he calls.
Instead of answering, Entreri silently sets his blades on the floor. He carefully shifts his weight as Jarlaxle approaches. When he judges the mercenary to be close enough, the assassin lunges for and grabs ahold of the sheets and blankets on the bed, yanking them upwards and sending pillows into the air. He flings the billowing fabrics at the drow and follows in the flowing shadows, ready to throw his weight in a tackle to the floor.
Jarlaxle starts as the wall of fabric suddenly rises before him, and it is all he can do to bring his wand to bear and shoot a glob of sticky goo at the sheets and blankets. The impact drives the mass of fabrics away from encompassing him, but within the chaos he loses sight of Entreri. He drops his dagger to bat aside the obscuring material.
His original plan thwarted, the assassin ducks within the changed trajectory of the falling sheets, retaining his cover. In the same breath, he bounds around the mercenary’s fabric-induced blind spot and tackles the drow to the floor.
“Oof!”
Jarlaxle’s wand flies out of his grasp as Entreri tackles him. He bares his teeth in a growl up at the human pinning him and grabs for the nearest object to hit the human with. His fingers graze something soft and smooth. Hardly caring what it is, he closes his fist on the pillow and swings it with all his might into the side of the assassin’s head.
The impact of the pillow against the side of his head doesn’t hurt. Not really sure why that fact makes him more angry and not caring about his lack of understanding, Entreri snatches up the other nearby pillow and slams it down at Jarlaxle’s face.
Jarlaxle raises his pillow to block Entreri’s attack, then quickly slithers out from underneath the human. Transferring the pillow to one hand, the mercenary swings it at Entreri’s shoulder in a long arch, the motion causing the already frayed stitching to split.
Entreri mirrors Jarlaxle and raises his pillow to block, but even the soft impact of pillow against pillow causes the contents of the drow’s cushion to burst out as the tattered seams give way. A flurry of down, in addition to more inexpensive stuffing material, rains upon the assassin. This shocks the formerly enraged man into stillness. Then, unexpectedly, an irresistible itch asserts itself within his sinuses, and Entreri sneezes.
Jarlaxle does not relinquish the opportunity and uses Entreri’s moment of distraction to snatch away the human’s pillow. Mercilessly, he whacks the assassin repeatedly with the quickly deflating object.
Much to his displeasure, Entreri’s sneezing fit does not ease. The helpless man only halfheartedly raises up his arms to ward off Jarlaxle’s relentless assault, his sneezes coming quicker as the second pillow looses its contents into the air. “Jarlaxle, stop,” the assassin manages to choke out in between gasps for breath before wincing and sneezing again.
“Do you yield?”
Jarlaxle laughs and whacks Entreri a few more times before noticing the human’s increasingly disheartened attempts to thwart his efforts. The mercenary sets down his all but deflated pillowcase and peers at the assassin.
“Are you all right, my friend?”
Entreri nods curtly to Jarlaxle’s second question, futilely trying to suppress a sneeze as he does so. He grimaces again following another irrepressible chain of outbursts, growling in frustration in between. As he blinks away the tears in his bleary eyes, he silently curses the drow for bringing yet another discomfort unto him.
Jarlaxle looks at Entreri suspiciously, unconvinced by his nod. Nonetheless, he shrugs, stands and brushes himself off. Tapping one of his many trinkets, he summons an invisible servitor, which immediately begins to clean up the former pillow stuffing now strewn all about the floor.
Entreri’s sneezing fit subsides as the room is cleared of the down from the torn pillows. The assassin glares sullenly at Jarlaxle before turning his gaze upon his ruined furniture. “You owe me a new table and chair,” he states dryly.
Jarlaxle laughs airily and waves his hand in the air as though Entreri’s words do not matter. He walks over to the assassin’s cot and unloads the contents of one of his many containers of holding. Layers upon layers of soft lush furs pile onto the bed.
Entreri stares at Jarlaxle with a mixture of shock and disbelief. “What in the Nine Hells are you doing? What are those for?” he demands, gesturing to the furs.
Jarlaxle glances askance at Entreri, his expression one of boredom.
“I’m unpacking,” the mercenary replies in a manner that shows he believes that the answer should have been obvious.
“And these,” he adds as he pets the topmost fur lovingly, “Are for making the stiff board that you call a bed more comfortable.”
Entreri watches Jarlaxle with growing incredulity. “Unpacking?” the assassin echoes. A breath later, his eyes widen, and he accuses, “You had this all planned out!” The frustrated man shakes his head.
Jarlaxle shrugs and grins as he pulls out the last of the items, luxurious overstuffed silk pillows. Spreading out the furs over the cot, the mercenary casually asks, “Where are you going to sleep?”
Entreri blinks a few times, unsure if he had heard the drow correctly. Finally concluding that he had, the assassin issues in a low and dangerous growl, “Seriously?”
Jarlaxle snickers to himself at Entreri’s response, but decides all the same that it would be unwise to push the human too much. He spins gracefully about to face the assassin and puts on his most winning smile. Touching one hand to his heart in a grandiose fashion, the flamboyant mercenary proclaims, “Ah, forgive me, my abbil, where are my manners? Although I normally would not endure such hardship, since you honor me by making me your guest, I shall share the bed.”
Entreri’s eyes boggle to such an extent that he is surprised that they do not pop right out of his skull. He opens his mouth several times to reply, but no words come.
Jarlaxle hops into the bed atop the pile of furs and settles comfortably against the headboard. Still beaming charmingly at Entreri, the mercenary pats the space next to him.
Entreri continues staring at Jarlaxle in silent disbelief.
Jarlaxle pats next to himself again, more insistently.
Entreri rigidly turns away and starts for the door.
Jarlaxle levels his wand at the door and shoots a glob of magical green goo to cover the doorknob and part of the jamb, making escape impossible.He throws one of his pillows at Entreri and readies another.
“Surely you do not wish to trigger your sneezing fit again,” the mercenary says innocently.
The glob of goo strikes the door just as Entreri is reaching for the knob. As the assassin slowly turns to fix the mercenary with his steely glare, the oncoming pillow catches him directly in the face. He bristles as he fights to maintain his guise of calm, but inevitably succumbs to his anger at Jarlaxle’s insufferable antics. Letting out a roar, he snatches the pillow from the air and charges the drow, swinging his makeshift weapon with all of his might for the dark elf’s head.
Jarlaxle simply laughs and allows Entreri’s strike to come through unhindered. The surprising amount of force knocks him off balance and onto his side. He continues to laugh while halfheartedly fending off the human’s assault with one hand, the other patting around for a “weapon” to counterattack with.
Entreri swats the other pillows out of the drow’s reach. “No you don’t,” he growls as he relentlessly clouts Jarlaxle with the pillow. The seams inevitably tear under such rough handling, firing plumes of down into the air, but still the assassin does not diminish his attack. His eyes water as he fights against the urge to sneeze, succeeding only partially against the irrepressible itch. Despite his clouded vision, despite the unnatural sounds that he emits as a result of trying and failing to growl away the sneezes, Entreri does not relent, throwing away the limp pillowcase after it fully deflates and snatching up another to continue his onslaught on Jarlaxle.
Jarlaxle continues to laugh as Entreri repeatedly hits him with the pillow. His words muffled and interrupted by the soft thwaps, the mercenary bemoans, “Oh, woe! I am surely done for, for there is no one who can save me - OOF! - from the deadly assassin!”
That earned him an even more vigorous beating, but Jarlaxle just laughs and lets Entreri play out his energy and rage while holding on to his aching sides. The odd sounds that the human makes in his defiance of his body’s response to the feathery down throws the drow into intense convulsions of laughter the likes of which he has never experienced before.
“Artemis, spare me!” Jarlaxle gasps, “I am dying of laughter!”
In contrast to Jarlaxle, Entreri feels perfectly miserable. His vision has been reduced to little more than a blurry screen and his entire chest aches from the continuous sneezing. Nonetheless, the stubborn man continues to beat the drow until the pillow in his hands, and also the last one of the lot, completely deflates. The assassin manages to squeak out something that vaguely resembles, “Good,” in response to Jarlaxle’s pleas before collapsing on the bed, his chest heaving as he gasps for breath. He curls up and groans, even whimpering a little, as the sneezes continue to rack his body. “Gods damned drow,” Entreri squeaks in between the irrepressible expulsions of air.
“Artemis, stop making that sound,” Jarlaxle gasps as he clutches his abdomen harder and rolls from side to side in his fits of laughter. The pillow assault finally ceases, but it takes a while before the mercenary is able to stop giggling like an elfling. Laying on his back and panting, the pounding of his heart ringing in his ears, Jarlaxle continues to grin as he watches the last of the feathers slowly drift out of his sight.
Finally recovering somewhat, the mercenary props himself up on his elbows and pokes at the assassin. Despite his concern for the human, the drow cannot help but chortle at each squeak and groan emitted by Entreri. He sets a hand on the curled up man’s shoulder.
"I’m afraid that I cannot summon my spectral servant again until tomorrow.”
The settling of the feathers causes the air about Entreri to become more breathable, and his irrepressible urge to sneeze continuously somewhat subsides. He clears the moisture from his eyes with his sleeve and snaps in reply to Jarlaxle, “Clean it up yourself then.”
Jarlaxle blinks at Entreri incredulously, as though the idea of him performing a task as mundane as cleaning was utterly ridiculous.
Despite facing away from the drow, Entreri knows Jarlaxle well enough to correctly interpret the mercenary’s stillness. With a great deal of exasperation the assassin explains, “I can’t do it,” and sneezes again, his body accentuating his point.
Jarlaxle shrugs and looks around. Using his wide-brimmed hat, he sweeps the feathers off of the bed. Hopping to his feet on the down-covered floor, the mercenary continues to sweep with his great hat, though he succeeds more in stirring the feathers into the air again than gathering them.
Entreri takes a deep breath, foolishly thinking that he can start to breathe normally again. He nearly inhales a feather that had been sent into the air by Jarlaxle’s inept attempt at cleaning. His eyes dart about, his panic rising with the returning urge to sneeze as the down is stirred back up into the air. “Jarlaxle, stop!” the hapless man wheezes, “You’re making it worse!”
Jarlaxle pauses mid-sweep and glances at Entreri, then around the room. He straightens and carefully hangs his hat on a bedpost.
“What do you propose I do then, my friend?”
Entreri bites back a string of colorful expletives involving Jarlaxle, the most grotesque demons and devils of the Abyss and the Nine Hells respectively and the most obscene sexual acts. The assassin surveys the room and realizes with dismay that the only area clear of down is the bed upon which he rests. Fighting back another urge to curse, he instead tersely instructs, “Shut up, lay down, and don’t move.”
Jarlaxle can’t help but smile. The circumstances aren’t what he would’ve wished for, but at least he has accomplished his goal of seeking refuge with Entreri while retaining the assassin by his side. He settles comfortably into the bed and folds his hands under his head, grinning nonstop at his victory while he listens to the human’s slowly abating sneezes.
Quickly growing bored in the relative silence, he begins bantering about various trivialities, paying only enough mind to ensure that his words make sense while focusing most of his pondering on his next steps.
Time passes in this fashion and night eventually falls, bringing a pause in his outpouring words. Jarlaxle realizes that he will be able to summon his invisible servitor in a few hours, but decides that Entreri does not need to know this fact. Despite his lack of need for the reverie, he pointedly stretches and yawns, then declares, “I believe that I shall retire for the night. Sweet dreams, my abbil.”
Entreri knew better than to expect Jarlaxle to follow his instructions, especially when they affect the drow’s garrulousness. Still, he wishes that the mercenary would just leave him be. It is already bad enough that he is trapped within his own abode, but the fact that he is confined to the bed, which he has to share with the one who has gotten him into this very predicament, adds layers of insult to his already gravely injured self-respect.
The assassin contents himself with passing the time by imagining the most creative ways to kill the accursed dark elf, taking inspiration from the drow’s own tales. Finally, nightfall brings a respite from Jarlaxle’s verbal barrage, and Entreri subconsciously relaxes. As he does so, chest aches and weariness grip him, and the spent man decides that killing the drow can wait until the next morning. As he settles in to slumber, once again that obnoxiously melodic voice pierces the silence. “Shut up Jarlaxle, lest I change my mind about not murdering you tonight,” Entreri snaps.
“That is correct, cupcakes,” Jophiel confirms, though she is unsure that was a question. He appears to think for several moments before beginning to give his reply, something the archangel is sure will be an acceptance of her invitation. They are interrupted, however. Jophiel follows Entreri’s gaze and turns around to see Fin standing behind them.
She does not understand many of the words that he is saying at all, which leaves the archangel from another world in a state of bewilderment. Firstly, he refers to her as ‘his Lady’ and she begins to worry that she might have misled the kind tavern owner in at least two different ways. Was the giving of soup and garments perhaps part of a mating ritual in this world? Is that why Entreri had referred to the soup as “convenient” earlier, and why he had seemed bothered when that man dropped all those items on the table? She has heard the term ‘Lady’ utilized when speaking to noblewomen, which she is not. She has heard it in other contexts as well, but very way that Fin seems to have used it.
Fin talks about his ability to foresee events, and she begins to worry again, that the creatures in this world have abilities beyond her comprehension, abilities that may be considered an abomination in her world by some of her brothers and sisters. He then names several things that she has no idea what to make of, but figures she will follow his advice and ask Entreri what these words mean after Fin leaves. Despite the words that are unfamiliar, a few things stand out that give Jophiel an odd sensation of discomfort that she feels in her stomach. Fin speaks of terrible weapons that can grant powers to mere mortals, relics of history that perhaps should be kept where they are, or in a cage in the heavens of whatever deities rule this world, somewhere perhaps very far away from mortals who may not understand the true power of said items. And his mention of potent magic makes her remember again that she must find a magic-user of great ability, powerful enough to open a door to another realms.
When Fin leaves, her “friend” who has not denied being her friend asks for her thoughts on this, of which she has many. The discomfort she feels in helping mortals secure ancient relics of such power is not gone altogether when she realizes this is an opportunity to obtain knowledge about this world and secure some sort of aid at the same time. If those artifacts will end up in the hands of mortals after all, perhaps the deities of this world should have guarded them in a safer place. This makes her think that perhaps they are safeguarded in ways that will end up killing most of the individuals going on the expedition. Most, except her and Entreri, she can ensure that. She is almost sure.
She leans in and lowers her voice, “Have I misled the kind Fin by accepting his offer of soup and garments? I thought he was being kind, but now he has referred to me as ‘his lady’, perhaps I made the incorrect decision in accepting his offering of soup and clothing. I have much to learn, perhaps I should speak to him after this. Tell me Artemis, if I help you secure those powerful artifacts, would you lead me to a magic user who can help me return to my world?”
Jophiel wasn’t entirely sure what he wanted to hear. Probably for the first time as long as she could remember, she had no idea what to say. Should she provide the human male with a detailed list of her abilities, or perhaps a list of the ways in which she could use these abilities to assist him? Perhaps the latter?
Perhaps both, she heard a faint voice inside her head, the woman who owned the vessel. She was surprised the woman could now communicate so well with her. Maybe she was right.
But if others were to eavesdrop on this conversation, I would be in danger,’ Jophiel mentally responded to the woman, and she stared at Entreri as she concentrated to try to listen to the woman’s faint voice. She’d surely been more damaged during the Fall than Jophiel. The archangel did not often reach within to elicit information or advice on human ways from the woman, as she’d placed her consciousness in a place within her own mind where she was happy and safe. Jophiel did not like to disturb that dreamlike state.
She was also unaware of how she now looked at Entreri but not at him, her eyebrows knit tight as she concentrated on the woman’s voice.
“I do not know what you want to hear,” she broke the silence finally. “If I am to give you a full list of what I can hypothetically do for you in any given situation, the list would be endless, as the possibilities are infinite–”
Idiot, she heard within her, which made her freeze for a moment before resuming her explanation to Entreri.
“–but perhaps I can give you some examples by narrating some ways in which I have assisted others. Years ago, I borrowed this body from a normal human female who had lost her child to a terminal illness. She was in her twenties at the time, and that was decades ago. As you can see, the body has not aged. While this is her body, her consciousness is in a dormant state, for the most part, in a sort of paradise of her choosing. I can do that to anyone without having to inhabit their bodies. It is easy for me to heal others from anything, whether it is a simple injury or a terminal illness. If you are wondering why I did not heal the woman’s child, it was not for selfish reasons. That is, I did not decline to heal her child so that she would be depressed and I could borrow her body. Some things are just meant to happen a certain way.
“As easily as I can heal with a simple touch of my hand, I can destroy with a snap of my fingers. It is not something that I do for fun, but I have met no beings yet that I cannot defeat, including minor dieties. I know almost everything about the world and its creation… well, my world, though I don’t suspect that is something that would be very useful to you. I do not have to travel by foot, though at the moment my wings have not fully recuperated. I do not sleep, and I do not require food, so I would watch over you while you sleep and give you my rations. You would not have to lift a finger to defend yourself if you travel with me, and in the rare event you should be hurt, I can heal you. And I can bring you back from the dead. Hypothetically… I… I don’t know if that specific ability works in a world that is not my Father’s. I can erase certain memories. And I have been told I make delicious cupcakes.”
He had opened and shut his mouth, and then appeared to be thinking of something, and then asked something that she was not expecting. At first she didn’t comprehend why he was asking, but quickly she realized. Human always asked why. Jophiel could recall the exact words being asked of her on the day that she asked to use this vessel. The woman, Holly, had nothing to lose, yet she had still asked the simple question, “Why me?” On that occasion, Jophiel had a perfectly reasonable explanation. She had told Holly that only certain humans could be the vessel to an archangel, and possibly for genetic reasons Holly had the perfect constitution. She told her that most other humans’ bodies would eventually fall apart under the burden, but hers would not. She had also shamelessly reminded the woman that she had nothing to lose. The woman had probably been seeking a more heartfelt reason, but this was something Jophiel had not considered until she was inside the human vessel and could communicate with Holly’s consciousness.
She doubted that Artemis was seeking a similar reason. He did not seem to be burdened with too much emotion, and this was something she could actually work with. More likely, this was a purely rational question, and of course, even the archangel had to admit that it was a reasonable one. Back on her father’s world, she could be as entitled as she wished, but in this realm she was nobody. A big powerful nobody in a small suit. It was natural of Artemis to ask why he should be the one burdened with what was most likely an unwanted responsibility. It was not as though he were seeking favor with any god, nor as though she could give it.
Jophiel had never had to “sell” the idea of her company before. Time was her pride may have been injured, but she had grown past such things (she liked to think). Her green eyes narrowed as she thought of a good reason to give him, but ended up only shrugging, as she’d seen many humans do when they did not have a good answer for something. It was actually something she had not considered. He just happened to have approached her. “Because you’re still here. You seem rational enough.” Jophiel had then considered adding that she was enjoying their conversation, but concluded this might actually not be a good addition to her argument. “I… should say this up front. If you decide to help me, I won’t be able to pay you in money. But I can offer more valuable benefits. It is no small thing to travel with an archangel on your side. Just as soon as I regain my full strength. So why not you? What do you have to lose?”
Now wearing pants and a shirt, Jophiel feels relieved indeed. She couldn’t continuously heal her vessel forever, already she is beginning to feel weaker, as though she simply cannot use her abilities to their fullest potential. She assumes it was the fall. As Entreri explains what the curious items are for, she nods, looking at them one by one as he sets them aside and explains the next. She already registers the importance of the ‘snow shoes’, as they would have most definitely come in handy earlier!
Tugging and pulling on the middle part of the dress, which now hung over the pants and under the shirt, she pulls at it until she tears it from underneath the shirt and gathers it up back in a bundle onto her lap. “I’m sure I can find a way to fix this,” she mutters.
Feeling much better, she notices still some items that are for wearing. She returns the man’s gaze and acknowledges his question with another nod and a small smile, reaching for the footwear to put that on next. She frowns as she tries to recall exactly what area she landed in, in order to better formulate her response to the man’s satisfaction. Jophiel looks around and, feeling relatively safe, not smelling any demons since her arrival, she begins her explanation.
“Your question requires a long response, but I will try be as succinct as I can,” she glances around to ensure it is safe to continue. “I have been living in a land far from here, for many decades. It is a different realm. My origins are elsewhere, in a realm separate from that one, or this one. Recently I attempted to return to my home of origin, but I was unable to,” her brows furrow in anger as she explains, “My brother created a spell to expel me and all of our siblings out of our home. He has locked us out. But for me, because I know him better than the others, I suspect he went a step further. He has cast me away from the land in which I lived for decades, happily among humans. To use the human language that I’ve been exposed to, so you will grasp my full meaning, he is being a utter dick.”
“After he cast me out, I woke up in the snow, somewhere southeast from this tavern. I am sure there will be a large crater, though I did not pay much attention. I walked a long way, having to heal myself in the process. I don’t recall how many miles.”
Jophiel gazes down and after a couple moments, continues in a quieter voice, leaning in toward the man, “I am sure if I can find someone who capable of creating a spell to return me to my world, I can help undo what the chaos my brother Metatron has surely unleashed on the land. Since we will be traveling together, I need you to understand this of me. I know humans do not often believe in magic, or spells, or demons… or angels… What I tell you is true. I look human, and feeble, but I am not. I am an archangel of the lord who created the world I was expelled from. I wear this body with the permission of the human who owns it and resides in it still, dormant for now, in order to exist in human realms. I assure you, I do not mean harm upon anybody, unless they intend to harm me first.”
“So… I suppose I need your assistance navigating this land,” she looks at him wide eyed waiting for a reaction.
Jophiel listened closely and nodded slightly, making the effort to keep the image of Entreri’s “least friendly glance” somewhere in her memory for future reference. She would do well to study, and perhaps mimic, where appropriate, the human male’s expressions. She had to fit in somehow.
The array of items dropped onto her lap so suddenly jolted her from her thoughts and she scrambled to gather them and prevent them from falling all over the ground. Her reflexes did not fail her, but the speed at which she instinctively reached for the items made her realize the true extent of her injuries. She began to fear that she may not be much use in activities such as flying. She looked up to offer words of thanks to the man anyway, but he had already gone.
Instead she glanced and offered a smile at Entreri, and looked through the items upon the table one by one. Many of them she recognized and knew how to use. There were items that she recognized were meant for outdoors activities, but since she had never had the need to use such items, she did not know how to go about doing so. She figured she would cross that bridge when she had to.
“Oh I did not bargain for much,” she replied, still studying each item. “I simply offered a blessing and any help I can provide during the journey.” She smiled at Entreri and took up one of the shirts, putting it on over her long dress.
She was surprised at how nicely it fit and how nice the texture was compared to the dampened dress. She set the items on her lap on the table instead except for the pants, stood, and proceeded to put those on under her dress.
“Does one usually take this many items on a journey such as this?”
The angel responded with a condescending snort. “I hold no reverence for pagan gods. I…” she quickly composed herself, letting it go before she would reveal something too soon. Besides, it may not do well for her to speak ill of pagan gods, not knowing the affiliation of the individuals of this world. She glanced around to ensure nobody else had heard. “I apologize for bringing up her name and clearly irritating you. I um… have quite a bit to learn about the ways of the humans here.”
She sat back and tried to adopt a relaxing posture as she thought over how to say what she wanted to say to him. One could not simply state to someone ‘I am an Archangel of the Lord, powerful enough to crush the pagan god whose name you share,’ especially not in a place such as this, where the Lord she knew, her Father, was not known. It may work in her own world, and it may have worked for her brother Castiel when he introduced himself to the Winchesters, but she was not as dramatic as Castiel, and Entreri was not as easily impressionable as the Winchesters. She looked around to ensure that nobody was listening.
Satisfied that the crowds were still gathered at the bar, she leaned in a bit, her smile returning. “I am very happy that you will be joining us, Artemis Entreri. I find you to be pleasant and satisfactory company. I cannot imagine that you share this way of thinking. Still, I have found our conversation quite enlightening. I am… not from around here. Behaving in a manner that conforms to these people has proven to be a bit of a challenge. I thank you for your advice on what is not appropriate, and I want you to know I have taken it to heart. Truly. I had wanted to ask the tavern owner about the nature of the look you two shared before, but I recalled your earlier words and refrained.”
She had a proud expression as though that were somehow a huge accomplishment on her part, and truly it was. It was not common or natural for Jophiel to refrain from asking questions.
Jophiel looked closely at the oddly dressed person who approached, trying to study the style of dress, the cadence of speech, and the overall mannerisms. She mainly looked at his posture, as she deemed him to be a more or less “ordinary” person, unlike Artemis Entreri. She’d already established that the latter had trained his body from an early age to be balanced, stealthy, and noticed when he wanted to be noticed. He was not an average person, and the tavern owner did not appear normal, but this new person who approached did. Jophiel smiled at him as he retreated, though the smile was neither seen nor returned.
“I have already explained that I am no stranger to perils. I have many skills and abilities that could be used in an expedition of this magnitude. So please, don’t worry about my safety. I will not be a burden on the group, despite my apparent weakness and small stature. The biggest obstacle I can think of is that I am not familiar with the geography at all, with the exception of the trek that brought me here. I am grateful for what you offer, and fear that it is too much for what little I am doing. I have no currency with which to pay you for your troubles, so I only hope that I can be of greater service in the future,” she ended with a smile. His question reflected her own determination to ask the man she called 'friend.’
“I do not speak for him. But I was thinking of asking him if he would accompany the group as well. We’ve only just met, but I am almost convinced that he has multiple skills and abilities that would benefit the group as well. I shall go ask him now. Thank you for your kindness. It was a pleasure to speak with you. Oh, yes, and my name is Jophiel.”
She shook his hand again and turned toward the man sitting in the shadows. Jophiel made her way through the crowd toward her 'friend’, noticing his expression, which made her question whether she was doing something considered inappropriate or odd. She sat across from him and set her hands on the table, smiling.
“The tavern owner asked if you are joining the expedition. I told him I do not speak for you, of course. But I do think it may be an exciting venture, especially for a man who carries the name of a powerful goddess. What do you think? Would you like to go on a hunt for the unknown?”
Jophiel’s expression remains the same, a calm, pleasant smile as the tavern owner speaks. Her brows furrow and she glances at her own shoulders as he does, as if to see what he is seeing, then glances back at him and nods in understanding.
“I see,” she shrugs. “You make a valid point, of course. I should procure a proper garment to protect my skin from the cold before the expedition. Perhaps shoes as well.” She smiles, “Please do not worry. I am not unfamiliar with either perils or treacherous journeys.”
She then realizes that she no longer feels the immediate presence of Artemis Entreri and glances around, a mildly concerned look on her face. Perhaps concern is not the appropriate word for the thing she feels, but he is the only person thus far who she has decided to speak truthfully to. She finds him in moments and her face lights up again into a brilliant smile toward the man. She thinks of asking him to join the expedition as well. After all, what could be more exciting to a hunter than the hunt for the unknown?
As she decides this, she glances back at the tavern owner to state with finality, “I will join your expedition. But please, if you’d be so kind to tell me, where might someone of my height and bone structure procure garments appropriate for this climate?”
As the man looked at Entreri, his expression changed just for an instant, which caught Jophiel off guard. That was a look of threat, meant to intimidate. The men do not actually go at each other, but the look exchanged spoke volumes. Jophiel parts her lips, but is quick to figuratively bite her tongue to keep from asking the tavern owner why he looked at her friend that way, or if her friend has offended him in some way. She decides against asking, recalling the explanation she has been given about asking questions, and deciding that it applies to this situation as well. Instead, she simply nods and waits for the moment to pass.
Jophiel glances toward the parchment considering the ruins. It is clear that the residents have discovered many things in their expeditions. She finds that almost endearing, and finds herself smiling warmly as she considers the curiosity of man, a trait she has observed countless times throughout humanity’s history. She runs a finger along the edge of the parchment closest to her, though she doesn’t know why. In addition, she vaguely wonders if the man she is talking to has somehow dirtied the clothes he was wearing previously, given that now he is wearing something else, and she doesn’t find this outfit particularly more practical than the previous one. Once again, she decides against asking him directly.
“Would the group benefit from having additional volunteers? If so, I would be very happy to help. I am quite good at collecting information. It is the least I can do to return the kindness that you have shown.”
As he spoke and rose from his seat she nodded and mirrored his movements, only glancing back to their table and returning to gather the empty bowl. It was a good excuse to speak to the owner after all. She held it in both hands as she took careful steps toward the crowd.
Water droplets dropped from the bottom of her dress, as the snow that had accumulated on it and among her hair had begun to melt. She vaguely wondered if perhaps she should obtain a coat or something along the lines of warmer clothing.
She took more than a few glances at Artemis, studying his movements, deciding that with her body she could not possibly mimic them. It was clear now that he was standing and moving that he had taken care to train his body, as many hunters do. She wondered if being a hunter in this realm, whatever it might be, meant the same as being a hunter in her world. Did Artemis Entreri hunt demons and other monsters? Or was he a different sort of hunter perhaps?
She decided then to study him as best as she could, to ask questions about this world. She would tell him who she really was and would ask him to aid in navigating the world, and in return she could help with his hunting. She was very powerful after all, it would be a mutually beneficial alliance.
Her train of thought was cut off by their arrival at the bar. Jophiel easily made her way through the crowd, earning perhaps a few distasteful glares, and toward the man who Artemis had said was the owner. Up close she could she the people here were different in some ways, as was the bartender, though not in a demonic manner. Obtaining his attention was not difficult, and the archangel offered a brilliant smile, returning the empty bowl.
“I am told you are the owner of this fine establishment. I want to thank you for your kindness. May you and your establishment be blessed.”
The words themselves certainly did not sound too far out of the ordinary for Jophiel, since she was used to hearing others say them while expressing kindness. However, coming from her, it was a true blessing. No harm would come to the bartender or his establishment.
“Would you please tell my friend and me what has your patrons gathered as such?”
Jophiel shook her head, the thought of her responding to the call of a lower being eliciting disgust, which she immediately tried to hide. “I have told you why I am here. Besides, I do not think that one is completely human, at least not at the moment,” she said glancing over once again at the bartender. Most demons would flee immediately at the sight of an archangel, except perhaps the so-called King of Hell. Even the Knights of Hell, Lucifer’s hand-picked warriors, would flee. Were this bartender a demon, he likely would have already recognized her as a divine being, but Jophiel had no way of knowing the capabilities of demonic beings in this plane. Though she was injured, Jophiel was still sure she could obliterate him with a snap of her fingers if need be, or at the very least burn the demon out of the human vessel.
As she stared at the bartender, she wondered why Artemis Entreri would think that she had been called here by him, her mind and her words seemed to be in two different places as she tried to make sense of the world she knew and the one she had fallen into. The tavern did not seem to be in the state it was when she entered, and this could be no small coincidence.
“Artemis fell in love with her father’s enemy, so he tasked her with ending his life. She wound up killing both her father and her lover… Why is the stew convenient?” she stared down at the now empty bowl, as if trying to make sense of his words, picking up the bowl and flipping it upside down as if inspecting it. However, her attention was soon taken by the commotion near the bar.
Jophiel nodded and tilted her head to the side, processing his explanation. On instinct, her eyes wandered sideways to the bartender, but she couldn’t point out exactly why at that precise moment. There was something off about him…
Returning her gaze to the man with the name of a god, she nodded. “Thank you for explaining this to me, I will remember it for future reference.” She had to force down the rest of the stew. She couldn’t understand why humans would eat this, it just tasted like molecules to her. Still, she tried her best not to make a face, so as not to offend the owner in case he was looking.
“Considering that explanation, I believe what you had asked about were my intentions…” she shrugged. “I had not thought through that far before you asked. After waking up in the snow, I just wanted to reach a place where I could think, and figure out a way to return home. I have not been successful. I don’t know what city this is. Perhaps I will wander around, find a way to occupy my time, until I find a way back. I should perhaps seek someone well versed in the magical arts… I suppose I don’t have a clear answer for you, Artemis.”
She smiled warmly, saying his name again. “Artemis. The deity of hunters. She is who humans used to pray to for courage while hunting monsters. Are you a hunter, Artemis Entreri?”
From Jophiel’s point of view, the human male sitting across her was about to reciprocate and tell her what he was doing there, which was apparently something that did not make the male entirely too happy, judging by the scowl on his face. No, she thought to herself, he does not appear to be a happy human male at the moment. She found herself wondering what circumstances had made the male so unhappy at the moment when a human female’s presence and voice distracted her.
She would have clarified that she did not require sustenance, but quickly realized that this would sound even more strange than she already looked. “Your employer has my gratitude,” she said to the retreating female, still not making a move toward the steaming bowl and instead glancing at the male, who then asked a question that seemed silly to the archangel at first.
Jophiel’s confusion further grew, and her expression showed a hint of shock. She’d never been asked a question like that before. Since her creation, she could not remember being asked what her purpose in existing was, if that was indeed what he was asking, and she believed it was.
Despite her many injuries, Jophiel found herself developing some curiosity about this particular male. Why, of all the males and females in this place of gathering, had he found it in himself to approach her and ask such questions?
A hint of a smile found its way to her eyes, as she was apparently unable to move the muscles that allowed her to smile. She focused on healing them as she drew conclusions about this male’s inquiries. He was an inquisitive observer. A person who observes the world around him and gathers the information in order to enrich his quality of life. One who seeks knowledge. Of course! The archangel of beauty and knowledge allowed herself to imagine this to be true. And he was probably unhappy because of not knowing! How slow she had been to arrive at that conclusion!
Her facial muscles healed, and her vessel’s complexion slowly returning to one that approximated the vessel’s normal tone, she finally was able to smile and shook her head slowly.
“You are very inquisitive. It has been a long while since I had the pleasure of conversing with such a curious party.”
Truth be told, the last time Jophiel had encountered such persistent curiosity, it had all been her brother Lucifer’s fault, and she had been burdened with the task of escorting the humans in question out of her Father’s Garden. But the angel’s views had changed. Since her Father had disappeared ages ago, she had grown to love humans’ innate curiosity and thirst for knowledge, and even to respect it.
At that point, she felt it appropriate to begin sipping on the hot stew that had been graciously offered, if only for show, and made a mental note to return the owner’s kindness.
“One can say that my life is about spreading knowledge and beauty to all who are open to it,” she replied casually, sure that it was the answer he was looking for, more or less. “And you? What is your purpose in life, — oh, I do not know your name. My name is Jophiel. What is yours?”
She felt him standing up and walking over to her table, and silently cursed herself for not having applied her knowledge of humans in this situation. Humans did not like to be gazed at, even by accident. She had made a similar mistake once before and had gotten stabbed as a result, which had been more of a problem for the person who did the stabbing.
She found that the longer she sat, her body became harder to move, and realized she needed to begin the healing process. But now, this human male had taken a seat across her, and clearly wanted her attention. She gazed into his eyes and saw nothing of the warmth, or curiosity, or even dislike typical of humans when encountering a stranger. He asked his question and she thought it odd. Couldn’t he see what she was doing? She was sitting, that much was obvious. Was he looking for a specific answer?
She realized her lips and tongue were slower in moving and focused on her tongue, healing it so she could speak normally. “My brother threw me out of our home. I fell into the snow, and now I am sitting here thinking.”
She couldn’t be more specific than that, and she hoped he was satisfied. As she focused on healing her internal organs, she sat with her back straightened, looking back at him as he appeared to still be looking at her. Her eyebrows knit in confusion. Perhaps he wanted some kind of human interaction.
Harsh winds beat against the exposed skin of her arms, neck, and feet. As she lay, sprawled on a thin layer of snow right where she had fallen, more snowflakes made their way gently upon her human features, covering her long black hair. It was then that she opened her eyes and was immediately assaulted by memories of how she had arrived at her current location.
She was an archangel, in her world. She, along with thousands of her brothers and sisters, were banished from heaven by one of their own. Her brother Metatron had cast a spell, and Jophiel had felt the push. She remembered a sharp pain and a blinding light as she was violently thrown from her realm, followed by a temporary reprieve as she managed to inhabit her human vessel, the one she wore now, a petite woman in her late 20’s. Then, almost as quickly as the first time, she was once again swept up and pushed out of her own realm while still wearing her human vessel. Where she was now, she couldn’t know. She could only deduce that because of how close she had been at one point with Metatron, he wanted her completely out of the way.
The human legs she wore felt numb from the cold, but it was no bother to the angel within. She could heal herself after all. Still, it seemed that some of her abilities had been impaired with the fall. She noted the sloping of the land she stood upon. She felt pain in her wings, invisible to human eyes, and knew they had been damaged. She cursed her brother under her breath and walked.
She walked for a long time, seeing very few dwellings and ascertaining they had been made by human hands and were in fact created for humans. This was a relief as well, at least she would fit in more or less. The closest and busiest dwelling she could find was a gathering place of sorts. These were called inns, she believed, or perhaps taverns, and as far as she knew they were meant to nourish and/or intoxicate individuals or groups of people who wanted to either have a good time or get themselves warm. She’d encountered these establishments before, so she knew how to behave in one.
Or she thought she did.
Barefoot, with only a sleeveless floor length dress—and of a thin fabric to make matters worse— to protect her human skin from the cold, she walked into the tavern with the intention of knowing where she was and anything else there was to know about that particular settlement. If she could find someone who meddled with magic, even better.
Pushing the door open, her green eyes scanned the environment. She didn’t see many other people. The bartender caught her eye, his crimson eyes alerted her of something inhuman about him, but she concluded she would do better to withhold judgement. She was sure she could still smite a demon—or other being— if the need presented itself. She would have walked toward the bar, but something about that bartender just did not feel right. She opted instead for an empty table where she could collect her thoughts and figure out her next move, at least before they threw her out, as she had no money to purchase anything.
She noticed a man sitting alone in a corner in the shadows, just a table away from hers. She had not noticed before either, but she had taken a seat on a chair directly facing him. Jophiel studied his demeanor as best as she could before realizing that she was staring and diverting her eyes, not wanting to cause any trouble. She couldn’t draw any conclusions. After all, she couldn’t know what to expect.
Harsh winds beat against the exposed skin of her arms, neck, and feet. As she lay, sprawled on a thin layer of snow right where she had fallen, more snowflakes made their way gently upon her human features, covering her long black hair. It was then that she opened her eyes and was immediately assaulted by memories of how she had arrived at her current location.
She was an archangel, in her world. She, along with thousands of her brothers and sisters, were banished from heaven by one of their own. Her brother Metatron had cast a spell, and Jophiel had felt the push. She remembered a sharp pain and a blinding light as she was violently thrown from her realm, followed by a temporary reprieve as she managed to inhabit her human vessel, the one she wore now, a petite woman in her late 20’s. Then, almost as quickly as the first time, she was once again swept up and pushed out of her own realm while still wearing her human vessel. Where she was now, she couldn’t know. She could only deduce that because of how close she had been at one point with Metatron, he wanted her completely out of the way.
The human legs she wore felt numb from the cold, but it was no bother to the angel within. She could heal herself after all. Still, it seemed that some of her abilities had been impaired with the fall. She noted the sloping of the land she stood upon. She felt pain in her wings, invisible to human eyes, and knew they had been damaged. She cursed her brother under her breath and walked.
She walked for a long time, seeing very few dwellings and ascertaining they had been made by human hands and were in fact created for humans. This was a relief as well, at least she would fit in more or less. The closest and busiest dwelling she could find was a gathering place of sorts. These were called inns, she believed, or perhaps taverns, and as far as she knew they were meant to nourish and/or intoxicate individuals or groups of people who wanted to either have a good time or get themselves warm. She’d encountered these establishments before, so she knew how to behave in one.
Or she thought she did.
Barefoot, with only a sleeveless floor length dress—and of a thin fabric to make matters worse— to protect her human skin from the cold, she walked into the tavern with the intention of knowing where she was and anything else there was to know about that particular settlement. If she could find someone who meddled with magic, even better.
Pushing the door open, her green eyes scanned the environment. She didn’t see many other people. The bartender caught her eye, his crimson eyes alerted her of something inhuman about him, but she concluded she would do better to withhold judgement. She was sure she could still smite a demon—or other being— if the need presented itself. She would have walked toward the bar, but something about that bartender just did not feel right. She opted instead for an empty table where she could collect her thoughts and figure out her next move, at least before they threw her out, as she had no money to purchase anything.
She noticed a man sitting alone in a corner in the shadows, just a table away from hers. She had not noticed before either, but she had taken a seat on a chair directly facing him. Jophiel studied his demeanor as best as she could before realizing that she was staring and diverting her eyes, not wanting to cause any trouble. She couldn’t draw any conclusions. After all, she couldn’t know what to expect.
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?”
therealghostrider:"You wanna talk about it. Maybe? You know I’m always here for you."
ghostgirldani: "R-really? C-cause… I mean, I’m j-just… it’s n-not that important, really… A-and you’ve pro’bly g-got other stuff to do…"
therealghostrider: "If I had other and better stuff to do I’d be doing it. Besides, it’s important to me…"
ghostgirldani: "Oh. Um…well, cause… it’s just… I dunno. I…I miss… some people…I guess…"
therealghostrider: "People that you met during your travels? Cause you know, I travel a good amount and have met people. There’s always ways of talking to them again if you try…"
ghostgirldani: She shook her head. “N-no… I do o-ok at staying in touch with them. I… I m-miss… my b-brothers…but… they’re dead and it’s my fault so I’ll never ever see them again."
therealghostrider:"…….all I got out of that was brothers. You had brothers?"
ghostgirldani: "I…um… yeah…b-but they’re g-gone…"
therealghostrider:"oh…uuuuuhhh…" He didn’t really know what to say after that, so he got on his knees to be more at height level with her and just hugged her.
ghostgirldani: Dani smiled a little and hugged him back, burying her face in his shoulder. “I-I’m sorry. I’m j-just being dumb. I-it’s not like th-this is anything new…"
therealghostrider:"Aw, Dani…it’s ok…do you want to talk about it?"
ghostgirldani: "Um… m-maybe…" She shrugged, biting her lip. “I d-dunno. I’ve never… I mean… Danny doesn’t really even kn-know…I don’t think…"
therealghostrider: "So? It’s not like I’d tell him…you can trust me. It’s not good to hold everything in…"
ghostgirldani: She took a deep breath, then sighed. “I-it’s not that. I just… I d-dunno. I don’t th-think he ever realizes th-that I think of the others as m-my brothers. He said they were mindless… But… it’s just… I w-wasn’t a freak, around them. We w-were all screwed up, b-but we were the same, s-so it d-didn’t matter. And i-it’s my fault that they’re d-dead now…"
therealghostrider: What was she even talking about? Clearly he was missing something important here, but maybe it was better in the long run to not understand. He tried though. “Hey, listen. I’m sure it’s not your fault.Things happen that you can’t control. Sometimes they are bad things…but for every bad thing that happens…something good happens. Except if Shadow caused it. Then you’re screwed."
ghostgirldani: She grinned a little at the joke, before her face fell again. “Except… I could’ve controlled it. I… I mean… I sort of…" She paused, swallowing hard. “I h-helped kill one of t-them. And I l-let the other two d-die. Cause he promised h-he’d fix me. Us. But h-he lied, and n-now they’re g-gone…" She trailed off, chewing her lip again.
therealghostrider: He still had no idea what she was talking about. “Fix you? What do you mean? There’s nothing wrong with you…and…you let your brothers die because of it? I don’t really understand…but, if its anything like what I did, you did it because you trusted someone, loved someone even, and you thought what you were doing was right. Don’t blame yourself…how could you have known?"
ghostgirldani: "I mean, I g-guess…" The last part of his statement sounded right, somehow, but what did he mean by the first thing? She looked at him in confusion, cocking her head to the side. “B-but…. J-johnny, I’m not s-supposed to exist. I’m… a…a…a mistake. If my ‘father’ had h-his way, if D-danny hadn’t saved me, I’d… I’d be a p-puddle of ectoplasmic goo, j-just like the others…"
therealghostrider: "…..what do you mean? Your father turned your brothers into goo? Whatever…I don’t want to hear that you think you’re a mistake. You’re not. You’re here, you exist, and you aren’t going to be turned into goo."
ghostgirldani: "But, I am a m-mistake! I’m not supposed to exist! I w-was supposed to be a boy! He didn’t want a m-messed up daughter, he wanted a perfect little half-ghost son. And th-the only reason I didn’t melt too was cause Danny found some st-stuff that helped stabilize me!"
therealghostrider: "…….You’re not really his cousin, are you?"
ghostgirldani: "…um… w-wait. Y-you didn’t…. know? I th-thought… you were just… I dunno. Being n-nice about it…"
therealghostrider: "Well, you said he was your cousin, so what else am I supposed to believe? What are you then?"
ghostgirldani: "I…um… oh. I guess… b-but you never thought it was weird? Th-that he just happens to h-have a cousin who l-looks exactly like him, who’s a-also a half g-ghost, and who h-has the same name?"
therealghostrider: "Well…uh…I guess it was kind of strange but I never really thought about it."
ghostgirldani: "Oh. I…I mean, I guess… it’s cause Ember and the b-blockhead are r-right about me… I’m j-just… a mini Danny. A c-copy. Except I’m n-not even a good copy…. c-cause I g-got screwed up…"
therealghostrider: "…who’s the blockhead?" He was a bit confused on that part, but everything else was starting to sink in. A copy? So Dani was some kind of clone or something? “Dani…you are not screwed up. Don’t say that. You are a great kid. Who cares what other people think about you? Even if you are a copy of Danny you are still your own person. If you were exactly like Danny then you wouldn’t be you…you wouldn’t be what makes you special…"
ghostgirldani: "Blockhead’s just some kid at Danny’s school. Dash, I think. He calls me ‘mini Fenturd’. But whatever." She shrugged, frowning down at her shoes, her hair covering her face. “I d-dunno, Johnny. I… I mean, I like all the same stuff he d-does. I even want to be an astronaut, j-just like him. And, I mean, I t-try not to care, s-sometimes, but… it d-doesn’t change the f-fact that… I’m s-still a…a….a m-mistake…"
therealghostrider: "Want me to break his nose for you?”
“Dani, will stop saying you’re a mistake? So what if you both want to be an astronaut? Lots of people want to be astronauts. Look, if you are a mistake, then why do people care about you? People don’t care about mistakes. And people do care about you. Danny cares about you, I care about you. That means you are not a mistake."
ghostgirldani: She smiled a little. “Nah, I can do that myself. But thanks."
"I… I guess, m-maybe… but he didn’t c-care. He thought I was a m-mistake, an imperfection. And h-he was supposed to be my daddy… So….if h-he didn’t c-care, I don’t know w-why anyone else d-does…"
therealghostrider: He sighed. “I hate to say it, but whoever this guy is is not your family. He might have created you, but that doesn’t automatically give him the title of being a dad…" He paused, hoping that didn’t sound too harsh. “What I mean is, family is the people who care about you. Family is the people who will do anything for you and love you for who you are, not hate you for what you are not."
ghostgirldani: She looked up at him, her brow furrowed. “I… I mean… I know he’s a c-crazed up fruitloop. I kn-know I shouldn’t think of him a-as my father; he c-certainly don’t think of m-me as anything more than a… a slave, or s-something. I-it’s just… h-him and Danny were the only people I knew at all, f-for a long time. N-now, it’s better, c-cause I’ve got other friends and I’ve t-traveled a lot and stuff, but… I still don’t… I don’t g-get it, I guess."
therealghostrider: The poor kid probably wasn’t going to understand no matter how hard he could try to explain things. He sat down then pulled Dani down so that she was sitting next to him. “Maybe you are too young to understand…I don’t know…but…" He hesitated, trying to think of how to word what he wanted to say.
"Dani, I love you like a sister. And as far as I’m concerned, you ARE my sister. Even if we aren’t related. And Danny loves you too. He’s you’re real brother…sure, those other copies might be your brothers too, but…well, even though they are gone, they are still alive in Danny…since they are Danny…" That last sentence came out a bit awkwardly, as if he realized it sounded absurd.
ghostgirldani: She drew her knees up to her chest, propping her head up on them as she looked over at Johnny, a confused expression on her face. He thought of her as a… a sister? She smirked in amusement as the last part of his statement trailed off. And this time, the smile stayed.
"I… I guess. And… I mean… maybe the others wouldn’t h-have lasted long anyway… they were more messed up than me. And I know Danny cares… it’s just… h-he’s got his life and h-his family and friends and… I kn-know he says they’ll accept me t-too, but…. What if they don’t? I mean, I think it’s weird that I’m his… his clone. It’s g-gotta be even weirder, for everyone else. Th-that’s why I just say I’m his cousin." She looked down, tugging idly at a few blades of grass beside her. After a moment, she continued quietly. “Y-you really… think of me as, like… a sister?"
therealghostrider: "You might be a clone, but you are still a completely different person. You have a different personality than him, that’s for sure. But also I think Danny might need someone too. You’re the only other person who totally understands what its like to be half ghost. I’m sure all that ghost fighting is stressful for him. I just don’t think he wants to admit his feelings sometimes. I don’t see any reason why they wouldn’t like you…hey, by your logic if they like Danny and you’re his clone then they SHOULD like you if you are exactly like him."
He suddenly put his arm around her shoulders. “Dani, you’re the closest thing I have to any real family. I love you like that annoying little sister who likes to torture her older brother but he still puts up with it because he loves her and cares for her and would knock the lights out of any blockhead that bothers her."
ghostgirldani: She flinched slightly when he put his arms around her shoulders, looking up in surprise. A slow grin spread across her face at his words. “I guess… you’d be pretty cool as a big brother. But that doesn’t mean I’m gonna stop messing with you." She bit her lip, still smiling as she turned her attention back to the patch of grass she’d been tearing up.
"And… I guess… maybe you’re right. About Danny. I mean… there is one other half ghost, but…. he doesn’t count…" She scowled at the ground again, not really wanting to bring the subject of Plasmius back up. “Anyway. But I dunno; I mean, his family is all ghost hunters. I’m half a ghost. And a weird half a ghost at that. And, yeah, they accepted him, but… he’s actually their kid. I’m… not…"
therealghostrider: "But that’s what siblings do. Mess with each other. Also, I’m pretty sure the grass hasn’t done anything to you that it deserves to be ripped up like that." He said jokingly.
"His parents may be ghost hunters, and I definitely know how scary his mother can be, but I’m sure they will love you just as much as Danny. Danny wouldn’t let anything happen to you. If he says his parents wouldn’t care, then why are you so worried about it? The street really isn’t the place for someone your age, ghost powers or not."
ghostgirldani: She blinked, then blushed faintly, noticing the shreds of plant in her hands. “Oh. Oops."
She shrugged, resisting the urge to then continue tearing up more grass. “I… I dunno. I guess… like, I want… it’d be really nice, t-to be part of his family. For real, not just the cousins thing. B-but… I dunno. They’ve… already got a life and way of doing things and stuff. I don’t… I don’t wanna screw it up. And anyway, h-how would I even introduce myself? ‘Hi, I’m your son’s secret cousin who you didn’t know existed! Name’s Danielle. You got any food?’" She paused, realizing that was almost precisely how she’d introduced herself to Danny in the first place. “Um…and anyway, I can take care of myself. I’ve been doing it pretty much my whole life. I wouldn’t know what to do with family or school or any of that anyway."
therealghostrider: "Dani…his parents are scientists. I’m pretty sure they have seen stranger. Just trust Danny, ok? He wouldn’t offer for you to live with him if he thought his parents would hate you. I think his parents are pretty understanding. His mom is extremely overprotective and you better bet she’s going to hurt anyone who tries to hurt her family. And that family includes you. Seriously, living on the streets isn’t fun. It may seem like a better option, but its not. Believe me…You know, if I had a home myself, I’d offer for you to come live with me…but…I don’t. I don’t have anyone. You at least do. "
ghostgirldani: "I… I guess. Probably. But… I dunno." She chewed her lip, thinking about how she wanted to explain it. “I… I only know how to travel and… and run away. I’m used to the streets. Yeah, i-it’s not great, but… I’ve lived this long just fine. And I like the traveling. I like meeting new people and seeing new places. I like being the boss of myself. And… I guess… I’m just…. I’m scared, Johnny. I reallywant them to like me. But what if I don’t do things right? What if… if I really am just a bad daughter?" She wrapped her arms around her knees, curling up a little smaller. Then her brow furrowed in concern, and she poked him. “And that’s not true. You’ve got me."
therealghostrider:"They will like you. Stop being silly. And you know what I mean. You have real family. I don’t." Without warning he took off his coat and threw it on top of Dani, completely covering her. “I can’t stand seeing you curled in a ball like that. Don’t come out until you can sit like a normal person." He said it in a stern, but obviously joking manner.
ghostgirldani: Dani burst into giggles from under the jacket, remaining curled in a ball. “Can’t sit like a normal person. I dunno what one of those is." She flailed around a bit until she poked her head back out, still grinning at him. “And I’ve only got a cousin. That’s not much family, either. And he’s a dork anyway."
therealghostrider: "A dork is better than nothing." He looked at her still pretty wrapped up in his jacket. “You know, I think my jacket is a bit too big for you." He smirked.
ghostgirldani: Dani giggled again, looking down at the folds of the coat. “Maybe a little. I think you could fit like three of me in here!" She considered testing the idea, but decided against it. Too much work. With a shrug, she smiled back up at him. “Hey, Johnny? Thanks."
therealghostrider: "No problem, kiddo." He just smirked at her for a moment before tackle hugging her.
ghostgirldani: Dani burst out laughing, returning the hug. “I guess you’re not mad at me, huh?"
therealghostrider: "No. Why would I be mad at you?" He nudged her shoulder with his fist. “I can’t be mad at my little sis, right?"
ghostgirldani: "I dunno. I just… cause I kinda lied to you for a long time… " She bit her lip, smiling a little sheepishly. “I’m being silly again, aren’t I?"
therealghostrider: "Yes, now stop being silly and give me my coat back."
ghostgirldani: "Um…" She pretended to think about that for a second, then smirked, wrapping herself in it tighter. “Nope."
therealghostrider: "Well fine…I’ll just take your hat!" he grabbed her hat attempted to put it on, even though obviously it was way too small. “I’m Dani now!"
ghostgirldani: "Hey!" Dani attempted to snatch it from him again, suddenly looking a lot more serious. “Johnny, give it back!"
therealghostrider: "….fine. here. Sheesh…" He gave it back and poked her, smirking. “Now can I have my coat back?"
ghostgirldani: She slipped the hat back onto her head, glaring at him a little as she adjusted it. “Nope. You’re the one who threw it over me in the first place."
therealghostrider: "Well then what can I do to get it back?"
ghostgirldani: "Um…." She made a face as she thought about that. “I dunno. I’ll have to think about it."
therealghostrider: "Hm…hey, Shadow!" Shadow comes out of the ground. “Wanna see what happens when you fly through a person?"
ghostgirldani: Dani frowned in confusion. What was Johnny up to now? “Um…Isn’t that a bad idea?"
therealghostrider: "Yes it is." he smirked. “So, we can either see what happens or you can give me my coat back."
ghostgirldani: She looked back and forth between the Shadow and Johnny a few times, perplexed, then clutched the coat tighter, shaking her head. No way the ghost was really going to have his shadow attack her. Right?
therealghostrider: He looked at Shadow, then motioned over to Dani. Shadow disappeared into the ground. Shadow emerged behind Dani and turned intangible, grabbing the coat and turning it intangible as well, and pulled it off Dani. Shadow flew back and gave Johnny the coat. “Dani, I wouldn’t do anything to you. But let’s call this payback for the bike incident." he put his coat back on then hugged her.
ghostgirldani: She pouted, mostly to hide the fact that she’d been actually nervous for a moment. "…Fine. I was gonna give it back anyway." Eventually. She made a face at him as he hugged her, trying to keep up the act of sulking.
therealghostrider: "Aw, don’t be that way…"
ghostgirldani: "I’ll be however I want. You’re not the boss of me." She said, sticking out her tongue.
therealghostrider:"No, but I’m now your self proclaimed big bro. You sure you don’t want me to deck the blockhead who’s bothering you?"
ghostgirldani: "Nah. Like I said. I can handle him, easy. Sides, I think it’s more me bothering him, than the other way around."
therealghostrider: "If you say so…now go talk to Danny! And I don’t want to hear you backed out at the last minute. Kay?"
ghostgirldani: Dani rolled her eyes, but nodded. “Yeah, yeah. Fine. After I get lunch." She said, pushing herself to her feet. Then she gave him a quick hug, before running off, grinning. “See ya, Johnny!"
Semi-canonical to my Dani's character development. Does not apply to threads with other Vlads, and she will never talk about this encounter to anyone. Warning for many feels.
Ghostgirldani: "You. Just what do you think you’re doing here, Plasmius?"
nocturnal-fruitloop: Her creator smiled deviously. “Do I need a reason to visit my little girl?” His words were meant to sting. Cold eyes stared down at her intently. “And please, can’t you simply call me Vlad, at least?” the older ghost hybrid quipped.
Ghostgirldani:"How about I call you a creep and a fruitloop instead?" She growled, eyes flashing green. "I know you’re not here for friendly chit-chat, so why don’t you tell me what you want? Or better yet, why don’t you get lost."
nocturnal-fruitloop: Vlad flinched at the cereal-related insult. He couldn’t believe it had stuck so well with his foes. His smile vanished, replaced with a scolding and unimpressed look. “Oh, the scary eyes,” he teased dryly, “Why would I need to explain myself to you, Dani?” His eyes flashed red for only a second, but it was a dangerous sign. “Perhaps I’m just here to finish some… neglected business?”
ghostgirldani: The girl swallowed hard, her fear starting to overtake her anger. "Don’t you come anywhere near me." she warned, taking a step backwards. “I can kick your butt, and you know it. And you’re never gonna get your hands on me again!"
nocturnal-fruitloop: Taking a step forward without changing his expression, Vlad continued to stare at the other. It was more than apparent that he was not scared of her. Clone of Danny or not, she was nothing in comparison to the ghost boy. “And what are you going to do to keep me away?” he retorted, his lips curling up into a dangerous grin. “Zap me? Fly away? Call for Daniel?” he chuckled, “It’s of no use. Your threats are worthless.”
A black ring appeared around his middle, separating into two and moving outwards from his torso. In the black and white flash he changed; red eyes replaced cool blue ones, fangs replaced teeth, his previously white hair darkened to pitch black and stood spiked rather than in its usual ponytail, his skin turned blue and his ears pointed, and his clothing changed from a black suit to a white, red, and black outfit, complete with cape and all.
His fanged smile was eerie, mixed with his red eyes and ghostly white glow. Vlad Plasmius took another step towards Dani, but made no immediate move to lunge or attack her. “Do you really think you could fight me?” he asked, grinding her threat beneath his metaphorical heel.
Ghostgirldani: Dani’s hands shook as she backed away a bit more, but she kept her voice steady as she retorted. “I’ve fought you before, and beat you. I can do it again!"
A white ring appeared around her waist, spreading up and down, transforming her from girl to ghost. Her hoodie and shorts were replaced by her black and gray jumpsuit, and her raven-black hair went snow white. Her green eyes narrowed as she faced off with her “father", and her gloved fists glowed the same color.
"I’m giving you one last warning. Leave me alone!" she growled through clenched teeth. She was a lot stronger now than she’d been the last time they’d met. She could take him. But a small part of her still wanted him to accept her as his daughter, wanted to find out that he did love her, after all. And that made her hesitate, waiting to see what he would do.
nocturnal-fruitloop: Vlad seemed to hesitate as well. A small amount of surprise showed on his face; Dani was truly intending to stand up against him- alone-, and that fact was shocking. For a moment he seemed to forget what he’d intended to do (although he’d never really had that figured out in the first place).
“Remember you had some help, last time,” though his voice was level, the words that escaped his lips were icy and dripping with venom. His surprise had been abandoned, replaced with cool composure and a serious glare.
His fists glowed with pink energy, but he still did not attack. Instead, he waited. Like the predator he was, Vlad waited for Dani to make the first move, knowing from experience that doing so himself may prove unwise.
He watched her. Glowing red eyes wandered about her stance, the energy in her hands, and, finally, her eyes. Defiance was there. He knew that. But the smallest voice in his mind said that there was more behind them than just that.
Ghostgirldani: Dani almost smirked as him, noticing the flash of surprise on his face. “Sure, Danny and Valerie rescued me, when I was barely able to keep from dissolving into a puddle of goo. No thanks to you. But once I was stable? That was all me. And I’ve only gotten better since then." She cracked her knuckles, working hard to hide whatever fear she felt. I can do this. she thought, steeling her nerves. I can beat him. He can’t ever hurt me again.
She didn’t know why he was waiting, but some instinct told her not to attack first. Her time spent traveling and sneaking around, living on her own, had taught her to trust those instincts; they’d kept her out of trouble more than once. Plus, she still couldn’t bring herself to act offensively against anyone. Especially not him.
"What are you waiting for, Daddy dear? Don’t you want to come win back your little girl?" she taunted. “Or are you scared of me after all?"
nocturnal-fruitloop: Vlad gave a concerned frown. A part of him was slightly intimidated and slightly impressed at her display of confidence. It reminded him of Daniel. He wasn’t sure if that fact bothered him or not.
The lack of either making a move left an uncomfortably tense atmosphere- for him, at least. He had been certain she would be naive enough to attack by now. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was proud of her. She had really been his only ‘successful’ clone, in more ways than one.
He knew he’d thrown that away, though, in a fit of blind rage and foolishness. One of many mistakes he’d made in his life. Another tally on the chalkboard, so to speak. Vlad pushed these thoughts away as best he could; he had more important things to attend to.
Her words stung. For a fleeting second, one he prayed she didn’t catch, the halfa was visibly hurt. The small break in composure did not last long, as it was replaced by an inhumanly low growl and a narrowing of bright red eyes. He couldn’t bring himself to speak.
In a moment of emotion- rage, hurt, whatever it may have been, Vlad did something he had deemed foolish.
He lunged at Dani.
Ghostgirldani: The girl dodged sideways as the older halfa lunged at her, taking to the air. Part of her was relieved; he’d made the first move. He’d attacked her. Everything now as self-defense. And that she could handle.
Another part of her, however, wanted to cry. She felt like the betrayed little girl she’d been the first time she’d realized he was using her. She’d barely dared to hope that his hesitation now meant anything. But maybe, if he hadn’t attacked, it was because some part of him still cared for her. That he’d maybe even actually loved her, once.
But no. Danny was right. She was nothing but a mess that he wasn’t going to clean up. A mistake. A failure. And he’d never seen her as anything more than that. He really hadn’t ever cared. And it was stupid to ever think otherwise, even for a second.
She set her jaw, firing a single huge blast of green energy directly at the other ghost.
nocturnal-fruitloop: Vlad regretted what he did instantly. But he had made his bed, and now he had to lay in it. Even if he couldn’t sleep, even if it was uncomfortable and lonely. He inwardly winced at the thought.
He shot at her a few times. The shots didn’t have any real battle-lust to them, though. It was as if he were simply ‘going through the motions.’ It was almost frighteningly obvious that he just wanted to get this over with and move on. ‘You’re sick,’ he thought to himself.
The thought revived his rage. With a bit more meaning, Vlad dodged the blast of green energy and made for her again, flying after the cloned halfa. He moved quickly, trying to grab onto her hands when she was within reach so he could prevent her from shooting at him again.
Vlad didn’t dare speak. His normal gloating was silenced by the idea- the fear- that he might say something wrong or foolish. He’d already acted as such. No need to back up that claim.
Ghostgirldani: Dani dodged his few attacks easily, surprised at how little force seemed to be behind them. “You getting weak, old man?" she called, taunting again. “And what happened to the witty banter? Cat got your tongue?"
She wasn’t quite fast enough when he came after her again, however. Apparently, he was still quicker than he looked. He caught one of her arms, preventing her from fleeing.
“Let me go!" she screamed, all bravo and confidence gone from her voice. Her shout was one of pure terror and anger. She aimed a blast directly at his face, as her green eyes, full of fear and hatred, met his red ones.
nocturnal-fruitloop: He let go.
How could he keep his hold on her? The sheer amount of terror in her voice, the shattering of the facade she’d held this whole time, stalled him. And it showed, too. The shock on his face. The realization that something he created truly feared and hated him.
Vlad looked back into her green eyes. He wondered if red could show any emotion, or if they just looked empty. He wondered if she could see the hurt and shock behind them.
The older halfa neglected to dodge the green blast, being hit full force and thrown back. He needed to stop acting like this. He needed to get his head back into the game, least he wanted to lose his reputation.
Aiming shots of pink ectoplasm at her took some discipline. But he did it, nonetheless. He tried to recover his serious and composed demeanor, but felt as if his eyes betrayed it. But then, he wondered again, wasn’t bright red empty?
Ghostgirldani: Dani threw up a shield, creating a glowing green sphere around herself, deflecting the pink blasts. She was shaking too badly to do anything else. She fought her emotions, trying to calm herself, but the terror and rage were overwhelming. Even if she’d wanted to fight or flee, she was stuck on the spot. As it was, she could barely manage to hold the shield and keep from crying.
The look in his eyes haunted her. She’d expected there to be… something. Anger, hatred, malice… anything, really. But it had been like looking into the eyes of a shark: dead, blank, emotionless. And yet, he’d let her go.
She looked at the man through her shield, a single tear of anger and pain escaping to slide down her cheek. Her voice cracked as she said a single word: “Why?"
It was the question that had haunted her since she’d first helped him capture Danny. That burned in her head as she’d screamed in his device, melting into nothing. That caused her to wake up in the middle of the night, trembling. Why had he used her and betrayed her? Why wasn’t she good enough? Why did he attack her? Why didn’t he just finish her off? Why did she even exist?
nocturnal-fruitloop: Vlad stopped. He couldn’t continue, not like this. Maybe- maybe if she’d fought back, but not like this. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. Why should he be fair, though? No one had ever been fair to him. Why shouldn’t he just destroy her now and get it over with? Why shouldn’t… should…
“Why?” he echoed hollowly.
But how could he answer that? His witty retorts wouldn’t come. Cruel quips were stuck in his throat. Rude remarks could not escape his teeth. And no explanation could come forth. Was there even an answer he could give? Part of him wished there was.
Part of him. Always part of him. That’s what came with being half alive, he supposed. What suppressed that part? His own pride? Guilt? He wasn’t sure, but suppressed it was.
He couldn’t look directly at her. Not with the way she trembled. He’d always thought he would enjoy that- seeing others tremble before him, especially after his younger years. But it wasn’t like that. He simply couldn’t bring himself to enjoy this.
His thoughts fell back to those before: ‘something I created.’
Was that it? No, it played to minor a part. Vlad knew why. It was because he knew she’d once cared for him. She, perhaps the only person- clone or not- had cared for him. And for a while, blind as it was, he’d cared back.
“I cannot explain,” he answered evenly, “Though… If I could, I’m sure you wouldn’t care to hear.” Fickle and worthless as it was, that was all he could manage to respond.
He wouldn’t look at her. He’d been trying to blast her a few moments before. But now, he wouldn’t even look at her. And now he sounded… almost sad. She’d never seen him like this before: malicious, powerful, stubborn, haughty, and always strong. Even when he was beaten, he terrified her, because of how powerful he was. But now he just looked… she wasn’t sure of the word.
Ghostgirldani: She dropped her shield. Maybe he was just acting, and this was just a trap, but she didn’t care. She was still upset, still scared, but mostly, she was angry. Angry that he wouldn’t look at her, even now. Angry that he had hurt her. Angry that he didn’t care. Angry that she wasn’t good enough. That even now, he didn’t think enough of her to even try to answer her. She felt like she was boiling and freezing at the same time, as the emotion drowned out all else.
"No." she said, her voice even and calm and laced with ice, as she trembled there in the air, ignoring the angry tears that splashed down her face. “You don’t get to make any more assumptions about me. You don’t get to just not explain. You owe me that, at least. Look at me, and tell me exactly why I wasn’t good enough for you. Father."
nocturnal-fruitloop: He’d never heard more final words in his life. At least, he couldn’t think of any others at the moment. Vlad looked back at Dani, stung by the tears in her eyes, though he knew he shouldn’t be. He should just get this over with, end her and move on. That was why he was here, wasn’t it? He raised a hand, glowing with pink energy, ready to blast her apart.
…No. That wasn’t why he was here, and he knew it.
Vlad lowered his hand carefully, letting it fall back to his side. In his mind he fumbled for words. What could he say? How could he say it? Was there really anything to say?
Of course there was. He grit his teeth at the realization. Vlad was just stalling one of two things. That was weak of him. Foolish. It made him sick.
…It made part of him sick.
“I made a mistake!” he shouted at the smaller halfa abruptly, “One I clearly can’t fix!” His fangs were bared, his fists shaking with rage- rage that he used as a feeble crutch. That was pathetic, but he couldn’t ever admit that, not even to himself.
Ghostgirldani: She didn’t even flinch as he raised his hand to blast her. That was about the response she expected. It was a kind of closure, too. Not at explanation, really, but an answer. And she could defend herself from him.
She was much more surprised when the expected red blast never came. What sort of game was this? She knew him, better than just about anyone else. She’d lived with him, once. Cared about him, even. He didn’t surrender. Ever.
The words did make her flinch, his shout laced with more than just anger. She blinked at him, her expression softening ever so slightly. She almost… pitied him. There was something broken now, that she had never seen before. But then the words sank in, and her own fists clenched in anger, her expression growing stony once more.
"So that’s it, then. I am just a mistake. I was never your daughter; just your slave." she growled. “And you’re just a monster. I don’t know how I ever thought you were a good man."
nocturnal-fruitloop: “I was never a good man,” Vlad spat. “And it wasn’t…” he trailed off, unsure if he wanted to finish. Perhaps he should just leave it at that- let her believe he was nothing but a monster who cared for no one but himself. That would be so much easier for them both.
But it wouldn’t, at the same time. Perhaps both options were as difficult as the other. There was no ‘lesser’ of the two evils here. He was in this deep. Surely, for all his power and experience, he had the strength to finish what he started?
“…I made a mistake in a different way, Dani,” Vlad continued slowly. “That mistake was neglect… And I cannot fix that,” the older halfa couldn’t believe what he was saying. Were those words coming out of his mouth?
“Do as you will, Dani,” he lifted his arms at his sides somewhat, a gesture that could mean many things. “If deeming me a monster, attacking me, or just flying off is the answer, then do it. I won’t stop you either way,” the words were even, spoken with little emotion but crammed with meaning.
It was like trying to kill Danny or Maddie. He could never have either of them, but he would never rid the world of them, either. He loved them. Perhaps he did have room in his heart for one more betrayal- one more heartbreak.
Ghostgirldani: She stared at him, perfectly still. Her emotions boiled. One moment, she was angry, the next, hurt, the next, pitying this man in front of her. Inside her head, an argument played out.
I hate him. He tried to kill me. And Danny.
But he’s your father.
No! He lost the right to that name a long time ago. He’s a monster.
You know he isn’t.
She listened to Vlad’s explanation. His admission that he wasn’t a good man. That he was wrong. That he’d hurt her, and that he couldn’t fix that. She felt like her heart was going to explode into a million fragments.
She wanted to do all three. She wanted to scream at him, blast him into a billion pieces, or just run. Run and hide and never see him again. But she couldn’t move. She felt paralyzed. And that tiny voice in the back of her head whispered to her, reminder her how she’d once regarded this man as her father. How she’d loved him, and believed every one of his lies. Maybe… maybe not everything had been a lie, after all.
She closed her eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath, then opened them, meeting his blank red eyes. And this time, there was something there. She didn’t know what, but it was something. Maybe he really wasn’t a monster. Or at least, not entirely. Swallowing once, she spoke.
"You tried to kill me, and to kill Danny. And I’ll never forgive you for that." Her voice rang with the pain and betrayal which lingered with her, and her eyes were hard and dangerous. “But you made me, too. And I owe you for that. So go on. Give me a reason. Just one. Why…" her voice cracked, and she angrily wiped another stray tear from her face. “Why should I give you another chance?"
nocturnal-fruitloop: He’d almost expected her to just flee. Maybe to attack, maybe to shout at him. He had not expected this. But he didn’t let that show. His cool composure held solid as he watched the other, contemplating her question.
“Why?”
Back to that one, little word again. Small words always did have the biggest meaning, didn’t they? A mere three or four letters could spell out thousands of things.
“I don’t know,” Vlad stated flatly in response, giving an almost half-hearted shrug. That was the truth enough. He really had no idea why she’d bother. If this had been Danny, he could understand. Maddie as well. But not Dani.
Maybe it seemed a little cold, but Vlad had never been an emotional man. Especially not in situations like this; where he not only had to answer to Dani, but himself, as well. There was a lot he couldn’t admit to himself that was laid out before him right now.
He glanced down. Couldn’t keep his eyes on hers anymore. Even if it wasn’t for long, knowing she’d likely drag his attention back to her, he needed to look away. Just for a moment, so that maybe, he wouldn’t have to face her questions for just a second longer.
Vlad inwardly scolded his foolishness.
Ghostgirldani: What are you? She tried, so hard, to stay angry. But at his shrug, at his honest admission that he didn’t know why she should even give him a chance, she couldn’t do it. She could handle the heartless monster who’d tried to melt her, who’d treated her as nothing more than a puppet. But she couldn’t handle this. As he looked away, her anger faded, and was replaced by pity. He was horrible, yes. Sick, yes. She still hated him. But she couldn’t help but wonder if maybe there was some twisted reason for what he was after all. She supposed she had too much kindness in her; Danny probably would have blasted Vlad apart by now. But she couldn’t help the small voice in the back of her head, which felt nothing but sadness for the person in front of her.
She landed. Clearly, he wasn’t going to attack her now. And she didn’t want to talk to him as Dani Phantom anymore. That was her cousin… no, the boy she’d been cloned from. Not even her cousin; just the original. She was a cheap fake. Her ‘father’ had made that clear, at least. The thought made her feel sick.
She closed her eyes, allowing a few more tears to escape, and transformed back into a small, raven-haired girl in a dirty blue hoodie and red shorts. Just a normal, lost child. Danielle. She looked back up to the vampiric ghost. He didn’t even scare her now. That made her sick, too.
She didn’t know what to do. A million questions, a million remarks, a million different things she wanted to say, to scream, to ask. A million more that she needed to hear. But mostly, she was infuriated, and disgusted, by the fact that he couldn’t even look at her. Who she was angry at, though, she couldn’t tell.
"Why won’t you look at me?" she whispered, feeling herself crack under the swirl of thoughts and feelings tearing through her mind.
nocturnal-fruitloop: He did it before he had any idea of what he was doing. On his knees before her, arms reaching for her, and he realized he’d completely snapped.
“No! You were perfect, loyal, strong, and real,” the words came in a rush, almost coming out as one long jumble of word-like sounds. “I created a perfect person- not a perfect replica- and was to blind to see-” he stopped. It dawned on him what he was doing.
Vlad’s pride shattered. Shaking faintly, he let his hands fall to the ground. There was no coming back from this point. What had happened today could not be erased, could not be taken back. Even if he ran away now, it would only be physically running. Mentally, he’d trapped himself here.
He didn’t cry, of course, no matter how much this tore him apart inside. At least he had that little shred of dignity left in tact. Not much, of course, but something.
Unable to find a suitable response, Vlad simply remained silent. With a bit more courage than he had left, he looked back up at Dani. Looked her in the eyes while his, surprisingly human, scanned them for what she would do next.
Ghostgirldani: Her first instinct was to back away. He was supposed to be strong. Everything she knew about Vlad Masters said that he didn’t break, didn’t show emotion. Even for the brief time she’d lived with him, she’d always tried to be her best to get even the smallest bit of approval from him. And those few moments had been the most treasured of her life, at the time.
If she was really honest with herself, despite everything he’d done to her… they still were.
I’m… perfect?
She looked at him, kneeling there on the ground, holding his gaze. No more blank red stare: she could see a reflection of her own pain, multiplied and mutated, behind his blue eyes.
Who broke you, the way you broke me?
She hesitantly took a step forward, then two, closing the distance between them, then sat in front of him, never once breaking eye contact
For all you have… you’re all alone too, aren’t you?
She didn’t love him; she never could. But she couldn’t hate him either, for all that he’d done. Nervously, not really sure why she was doing it, she softly laid one of her small hands on his shaking ones.
How to I fix myself, before I become you?
nocturnal-fruitloop: As soon as her hand touched his, he could no longer hold her gaze, and he looked down. Down, at Dani’s hand rested on his own. For a moment, he contemplated a thought- that, in some ways, they were one in the same. In some ways, Vlad felt she mirrored him. Alone, lost, but…
…But that didn’t matter. It was simple, really- she was good, he was evil. A game the universe had played for eons. Good guys fight bad guys, whether or not the bad guys created them or not. And the good guys… always won.
It couldn’t be any other way, and he knew this. He knew she, and Danny, and Maddie, knew it too. Vlad was evil. A monster bent on not only stealing the woman of his dreams, but claiming everything his former best-friend had gained. Everything he’d lost due to one, little fluke. A demon who wanted power, to be able to control others, out of greed and pride. Traits that made him a truly bitter creature.
Vlad looked back up at her after a moment. His expression was unreadable, though his eyes still gave his inner battles away. He was a lonely man, twisted and soured by tragedy and betrayal. The only difference between him and Dani was a simple one.
She was stronger than him. She had the will to resist doing wrong, despite having the power to do so.
Although he could never say it, he was proud of her for that, too.
Ghostgirldani: "I still can’t forgive you, you know." She broke the silence, a bit more harshly than she’d meant to. “You… I can’t ever explain, what you did to me. How you broke me." She shook her head, not even sure why she was telling him this. But what could be do to her now? She’d beaten him; she knew that. So what has the harm? The thoughts that had plagued her, gnawed at her through all her travels, came tumbling out.
"I’m still a mistake. A freak. And even if Danny accepts me… I can’t ever be part of his family." She bit her lip hard, feeling it split. “I can’t really even be part of his life."
She stood, pulling away from him, wiping the tiny bead of blood from her lip. “I don’t know what happened to you. I don’t know why you became… whatever it is you are now. But I don’t want to become you. I can’t become you." She looked down on him, her expression mixed parts pity and contempt. She couldn’t fear, or hate, or admire him anymore.
"But what else is there for me to be?"
nocturnal-fruitloop: Vlad didn’t react for some time. He just watched her, his eyes flashing with different emotions. They scanned her, as if searching for words. As if he could pull everything from nowhere and talk his way out of this.
His eyes finally set on an emotion.
A smug, proud look, partnered with a small smirk.
“I don’t want you to forgive me,” her creator responded, his voice returning to normal; cool, calm, collected. “And I can never explain what happened to me, either. We’re both mistakes, Dani. We’re both freaks and neither of us should have ever been. Bask in the glorious fact that at least someone accepts you. I, however, remain alone.”
Vlad stood up as well, dusting himself off almost mechanically.
“You’ve already proven that you won’t end up like your dear old dad,” what he said was not mocking, and he winced at his own words. “Painfully proven it. But, then, you have someone,” a cool, calculated smile touched his lips. His eyes darkened some, and it became apparent that Vlad was returning to his normal, diabolical self.
“You’re the only one who can answer that question, Dani,” he studied her again for a moment, then returned his gaze back to her eyes.
“There’s no wrong answer.”
Ghostgirldani: She watched him morph back into the Vlad he used to be. The one she feared, and hated, and respected. The one that could strap a little girl to an experimentation table. The ghost with the blank red eyes. The millionaire with everything, and nothing. The man she’d once called “Daddy."
And when he met her gaze, she smiled. But the expression didn’t reach her eyes.
"You had someone too, Plasmius. You had me." Her voice, too, was calm and cold. “And I don’t think I’m the first one you’ve pushed away."
She nodded once. For all his lies in the past, that final statement rang true. There is no wrong answer.
Without another word, she turned her back on him, and began to walk away.
