Упс!

Мамин мужчина начинает вызывать отвращение.
Аж до тошноты.
С чего бы?

UPD.
Отпустило.
Спишу на ПМС.
Удобно быть женщиной...
Иногда...

@темы: Что-то другое

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Хммм...

У моей сестры 7 августа свадьба...
Интересно, что мне положено чувствовать по этому поводу?

@музыка: Rag

@темы: Что-то другое

---

Потребительская цивилизация

Радио Серебряный Дождь всегда для меня было "радио не для всех".
Модель для сборки, дым под водой, Фрэнки-шоу...
Фрэнки.
Человек тысячи лиц.
Он гений.
Его голос похож на чёрную дыру.
Его идеи непонятны, ярки и заставляют задуматься.
То, что он говорит, проходит сквозь сознание словно ледоход.

Матрица

Маэстро, прошу Вас не надо больше всех этих шумных и до ужаса обнажающих нашу реальность фокусов. Сделайте финал максимально тихим, безыскусным и максимально лишенным виртуозности, что, как известно, совсем не в стиле Фрэнки-шоу, и тем не менее, прошу вас.
О. Прекрасно. Просто замечательно…
И звук вашего фортепиано разносится в пустом холле офиса Серебряного Дождя, словно одинокие капельки, разливающиеся о землю совершенно переинсталированной реальности. Спасибо огромное.
Итак, дорогие мои. Вот она - та самая матрица, наделавшая так много шума в головах столь чутких к движению времени молодых людей и предоставившая их пытливости блистательно-попсовый образ обобщения, с помощью которого некоторые из них действительно приобщились к вопросу: Что же мы, черт возьми, такое? И что это собственно за игра такая, в которую все живое оказалось вовлеченным и теперь вынуждено играть? Каждый в силу своего таланта, умственных способностей и физических данных, в силу своего темперамента, харизмы или что мы там еще о себе думаем. Являемся ли мы хозяевами этих своих ролей? Сами ли принимаем решения в этой игре? Кто здесь придумывает правила и кто кого держит за дураков, танцует или еще более философски – кто кого спит?
Я могу сказать вам на сто процентов точно – раньше этого вопроса не задавал никто. Мы первые. Потому что отвечать на него, кроме нас, больше некому. Именно поэтому только наш ответ и сработает. Помните фразу, сказанную очаровательным буддийским мальчиком, в первой серии трилогии: «Ложки не существует». Все. Прошли те времена. За окном новое тысячелетие. Время глобально-информационных технологий и ошеломительно-катастрофических перемен, скорости которых настолько высоки, что форма и сознание меняются прямо на глазах как в кино или компьютерной игре, трансформируя собой и нашу с вами реальность как таковую. Ведь стабильности, как кто-то из вас, вероятно, уже заметил, нет и не может быть ни в чем, и совершенно бессмысленно гнаться за ней, - нет таких скоростей, которые позволили бы нам присвоить ее. Старые схемы и представления о природе вещей больше не работают. Мир уже иной. Прямо по ходу игры меняющий свои правила, легко трансмутирующий себя в свои собственные противоположности и так легко, словно масло намазывающий нас самым распространенным диагнозом среднего жителя современного мегаполиса на хлеб непроходимой депрессии от усталости и загнанности, от невозможности просчитать всю эту кошмарную многоликость мира. И большинство людей никогда так и не решатся на эту игру и вообще не задумаются над этими вопросами. Как они усомнятся в адекватности своих представлений о природе всего того многообразия явлений, что проступает перед их взором? Ведь ложь как известно гораздо удобнее правды, а иллюзия гораздо более позитивна и жизнеутверждающа, чем реальность как таковая, верно? Вот, что такое Матрица.
Игрок-виртуоз тягаться с которым совершенно бесполезно, хотя по молодости у кого-то из нас, и слава Богу, и ветер нам в спину, есть иные, дерзкие и совершенно противоположные версии. Но противник, согласитесь, действительно достойный. С фантастической и просто потрясающей виртуозностью инкрустированный обман, трижды вложенный сам в себя. Истинное чудо. Подлинный шедевр. И по большому счету самый большой наш друг и защитник - потребительская цивилизация, находящаяся в пике своего развития, хотя так хочется сказать в пикЕ. Мир тотально примитивных индивидуумов, каковых большинство. Чувства и мысли которых просчитаны до мельчайших нюансов и которых устраивает такая реальность. Именно поэтому она и такая. И здесь, говоря словами одного из героев, можно только указать на дверь, а входить или не входить, съедать свою таблетку или нет, играть или не играть – каждый будет решать сам, верно? И если сегодня мне удалось вам сообщить что-то новое, что кто-то из вас сочтет не достаточно претенциозным или сумасшедшим,и более того – даже пригодным для использования – тогда берите, наслаждайтесь. И Будьте счастливы. Если же напротив, вы не найдете здесь ничего, что было бы полезно лично для вас, тогда наслаждайтесь поиском чего либо еще, творите свое и будьте счастливы с этим. В любом случае - ложки больше не существует . Или у вас как всегда другие версии на этот счет?
Show time…

@темы: Что-то другое

---

Knowing look...

Curious Humans by Lola Witherbottoms

Artemis Entreri stepped tentatively into Jarlaxle's office, his dark eyes gazing at the mercenary with a fair amount of contempt. The bald drow was rapidly moving a large quill across a sheaf of paper, likely sketching out runes for spells. His large purple hat hung nearby on a hook, the massive diatryma feather missing. The assassin realized that it was currently in use as the quill.
Entreri took another step closer to the mercenary, keeping his hands close to his sword and dagger. He knew he likely wouldn't need them, but they offered him a scant feeling of protection. That, and Jarlaxle seemed to warrant death threats on a daily basis.
"Lovely to see you, Artemis," Jarlaxle said at last, not looking up from his work. "To what do I owe this honor?"
The assassin gripped his sword, the sarcastic, joking tone in the mercenary's voice already getting to him. He reminded himself not to lose his temper. That would get him no closer to his goal.
"What did you want to see me about? The drow looked up when the human didn't answer, and tucked the feather back into the brim of his hat.
"I want you to get me out of this city," Entreri stated bluntly, figuring it best to be upfront. "Return me to the surface."
Jarlaxle reached for his eyepatch and pulled it off, the expression on his angular face unreadable. Then he burst into almost-hysterical laughter, clutching his stomach when it became too much.
"Ah, Artemis," he finally sighed, wiping his eyes. "I didn't realize you had such a sense of humor!"
"Because I don't," came the dark reply, Entreri's voice full of simmering malice.
Jarlaxle grinned, shaking his head. "Now, why exactly should I allow you to return to the surface? I mean, any specific reasons, or…?"
Entreri blinked. He hadn't expected Jarlaxle to comply with his demands, but he hadn't expected to be taken seriously, either. "I can kill you," he finally said hesitantly, reaching for his sword.
"I can assure you, it would take a very long to accomplish such a task," the mercenary said calmly. "You would be an old man by the time you got past my wards, and would lack the strength to even lift your sword." He raised one thin, white eyebrow. "So why should I return you to the surface?"
"I'm human," Entreri replied after a long moment. "I can't survive down here much longer."
"On the contrary," Jarlaxle countered. "You are not the first human to take up residence in Menzoberranzan."
Entreri rolled his eyes. "You have strange food to which I'm not accustomed. What if I get sick?"
"I think you'll find rothé meat is as good as anything you'll find on the World Above."
Entreri paused. "Surely you have diseases foreign to surface dwellers?"
"We have only the finest medication."
"I have no home."
"You had no home on the surface."
"I mean nothing here."
"You are a human in a drow city."
"What if I desire companionship?"
"There must be some female in the city willing to have you."
"But you won't allow me to leave Bregan D'aerthe headquarters."
Jarlaxle winked. "Precautions, my friend."
Entreri scowled. "Don't call me that." He knew he had lost. He turned to leave, but was stopped when the heavy adamantite door swung shut and locked of its own accord. He whirled around and glared at Jarlaxle, who gave him an irritating grin in return.
"You want to leave because the drow remind you of yourself."
Entreri hated to admit that Jarlaxle was right, but he would never tell him that.
The mercenary's grin widened in reply to the assassin's silence. "And yet you hate Drizzt Do'Urden because you see in him all that you could have been."
"You know that's a lie," Entreri hissed.
"Is it?" Jarlaxle stood and sauntered over to the assassin. His grin had been replaced by a quiet smile, not quite reaching his eyes. He sat down on the desk and said softly, "Truth be told, Artemis, I find humans rather curious. They live for less than a century, yet they are more productive than many of the longer-lived races. They know their time is limited, but they use it to their advantage and accomplish so much more."
"So is that all I am?" Entreri snapped. "An experiment? Some wizard's rat to be studied?"
"No, no, not at all," Jarlaxle said, dismissively waving his hand. "I simply find humans fascinating. You in particular, Artemis." He moved close to Entreri—too close for the assassin's comfort. He sensed a change in Jarlaxle's demeanor, and it made him uneasy. "You have been a killer for most of your life. You can use your body as a weapon. You are ruthless and cruel. You have built a shield around yourself to protect you from the cold, hard world, but surely…surely you are capable of some feeling."
The assassin tried to move away but found himself pressed against the door.
"I find humans alluring, Artemis." Jarlaxle came even closer—so close that Entreri could feel the drow's warm breath on his face. "Again, you in particular." A moment later he was pulled into a rough embrace, the mercenary's lips crushed against his.
Entreri was frozen to the spot, forced to give in to the kiss. His lips parted when he felt Jarlaxle's probing tongue. A hand came around to cup the back of his head while an arm slid around his waist, bringing him even closer. Unaware of his actions, the assassin wrapped his arms around the dark elf's slender shoulders, a fog settling in his brain.
But then his lungs began to burn, and the dull pain restored his senses. With a disgusted shout he tore himself away, thrusting Jarlaxle back. Red eyes gazed innocently at him as he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.
"You fool!" he shouted, livid. "Why in the Nine Hells did you do that?"
Jarlaxle smirked. "To prove a point."
The assassin glowered. "You have nothing to prove."
"Living in Menzoberranzan, even for a few tendays, has made you feel things you haven't felt for years. You're lonely. You have no fellow humans for company. You were among them on the surface, but down here you are only now beginning to realize that you are truly alone for the first time in your life. You desire companionship. And as much as you hate to admit it, you need to come to terms with it. I am the closest thing you have to a friend right now, and I can give you the companionship you so desperately crave."
Entreri gaped in disbelief. "You think I want your company? You think I want anyone's company?"
Jarlaxle gave him a knowing look.
Entreri, too outraged to say any more, turned on his heel and stalked out of the office. He made his way back to the small apartments he had been given and sat on the edge of his bed, fuming.
But as the anger subsided, he began to realize that Jarlaxle was right. He was lonely. He had forgotten what that felt like.
For the first time in his life, Artemis Entreri was truly alone. And it wasn't for lack of a human presence, but because he was trapped in a city populated by creatures exactly like him—ruthless, efficient killers who cared nothing for anybody. He did long for companionship, but not what Jarlaxle was offering. Never that.
But he couldn't escape. Any journey to the surface would take tendays, and in all likelihood he would be killed in the Underdark before he ever saw sunlight. For now, he was at Jarlaxle's mercy, completely helpless. It certainly wasn't a position he wanted to be in, but there wasn't much he could do. He could only wait.

@темы: Entreri, Jarlaxle, в запас

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Понимание...

Мои мужчины преподают мне только жизненные уроки.

---

Оппа!

 hatshepsut, проходите, не стесняйтесь.
Для Вас - скромная подборка работ одного интереснейшего уличного художника, рисующего мелом на асфальте.
Надеюсь понравится.

Julian Beever

@темы: Что-то другое

---

Личный ад Артемиса Энтрери.

Хехехе, мне нравится.
Интересно почему?
Жалко его, о какой нормальной жизни может идти речь у человека, окружённого вот ЭТИМ?!

@темы: Entreri, Drizzt, Jarlaxle, Kimmi, Ray'gi

---

Игромания - это ..?

Прикинулась овощем и соотношу понятия.
Итого:
1. Ведьмак
2. Принц Персии II, III
3. Assassin's Creed I, II
4. Bioshock I
5. World of Warcraft
И после этого я человек с игровой зависимостью?

@музыка: Brzeg

@темы: по понятиям, Что-то другое

---

На Ваш страх и риск!!!

22.07.2010 в 16:37

Пишет  Файмор:

Моб

@музыка: Сплин - Мне 20 лет

@темы: стрёмный моб, Что-то другое

---

Умереть красиво..

...надо уметь.

Предсмертные слова знаменитых людей

Легендарный Каспар Бекеш, всю жизнь проживший воинствующим безбожником, на смертном одре уступил уговорам набожного Батория и согласился принять священника. Священник попытаться утешить Бекеша тем, что последний ныне покидает юдоль скорбей и скоро узреет мир лучший. Тот послушал-послушал, потом приподнялся на ложе и сколь было сил отчетливо высказал: "Пшел вон. Жизнь прекрасна." С чем и умер.

Императрица Елизавета Петровна крайне удивила лекарей, когда за полминуты до смерти поднялась на подушках и, как всегда, грозно, спросила: "Я что, все еще жива?!". Но, не успели врачи испугаться, как все исправилось само собой.

Граф Толстой последнее, что произнес на смертном одре: "Мне бы цыган услышать - и ничего больше не надо!"

Композитор Эдвард Григ: "Ну что ж, если это неизбежно...".

Павлов: "Академик Павлов занят. Он умирает".

Знаменитый натуралист Ласепед отдал распоряжение сыну: "Шарль, напиши крупными буквами слово КОНЕЦ в конце моей рукописи".

Физик Гей-Люссак: "Жаль уходить в такой интересный момент"

Дочь Людовика XV Луиза: "Галопом в небеса! Галопом в небеса!"

Писательница Гертруда Стайн: "В чем вопрос? В чем вопрос? Если нет вопроса, то нет и ответа"

Виктор Гюго: "Я вижу черный свет...".

Юджин О`Нейл, писатель: "Я так и знал! Я так и знал! Родился в отеле и... черт побери... умираю в отеле".

Единственное, что успел сказать перед смертью Генри VIII: "Монахи... монахи... монахи". В последний день жизни его мучили галлюцинации. Но наследники Генри на всякий случай устроили гонения на все доступные монастыри, подозревая, что короля отравил кто-то из священников.

Джордж Байрон: "Ну, я пошел спать".

Людовик XIV кричал на домочадцев: "Чего вы ревете? Думали, я бессмертен?"

Отец диалектики Фридрих Гегель: "Только один человек меня понимал на протяжении всей жизни... А в сущности... и он меня не понимал!".

Вацлав Нижинский, Анатоль Франс, Гарибальди перед смертью прошептали одно и то же слово: "Мама!".

"Подождите минуточку". Это сказал Папа Римский Александр VI. Все так и сделали, но, увы – ничего не получилось, папа все-таки скончался.

Еврипид, который, по слухам, был просто в ужасе от близкой кончины, на вопрос, чего может бояться в смерти такой великий философ, ответил: "Того, что я ничего не знаю".

Умирая, Бальзак вспоминал одного из персонажей своих рассказов, опытного врача Бианшона: "Он бы меня спас...".

Петр Ильич Чайковский: "Надежда!.. Надежда! Надежда!.. Проклятая!"

Михаил Романов перед казнью отдал палачам свои сапоги: "Пользуйтесь, ребята, все-таки царские".

Шпионка-танцовщица Мата Хари послала целящимся в нее солдатам воздушный поцелуй: "Я готова, мальчики".

Философ Иммануил Кант произнес перед самой смертью всего одно слово: "Достаточно".

Один из братьев-кинематографистов, 92-летний О. Люмьер: "Моя пленка кончается".

Ибсен, пролежав несколько лет в немом параличе, привстав, сказал: "Напротив!" - и умер.

Надежда Мандельштам - своей сиделке: "Да ты не бойся".

Сомерсет Моэм: "Умирать - скучное занятие. Никогда этим не занимайтесь!"

Генрих Гейне: "Господь меня простит! Это его работа".

Иван Сергеевич Тургенев на смертном одре изрек странное: "Прощайте, мои милые, мои белесоватые...".

Поэт Феликс Арвер, услышав, что санитарка говорит кому-то: "Это в конце коЛидора", простонал из последних сил: "Не коЛидора, а коРидора" и умер.

Художник Антуан Ватто: "Уберите от меня этот крест! Как можно было так плохо изобразить Христа!"

Оскар Уайльд, умиравший в гостиничном номере, оглядел угасающим взором безвкусные обои на стенах и вздохнул: "Они меня убивают. Кому-то из нас придется уйти". Ушел он. Обои остались.

«Свершилось» — Иисус

В начале XIX века внучка знаменитого японского воина Шингена, одна из самых красивых девушек Японии, тонкая поэтесса, любимица Императрицы захотела учиться Дзен. Несколько известных мастеров ответили ей отказом из-за ее красоты. Мастер Хакоу сказал: «Твоя красота будет источником всех проблем». Тогда она сожгла свое лицо раскаленным железом и стала ученицей Хакоу. Она взяла имя Рионен, что означает «четко понимать». Перед самой смертью она написала небольшое стихотворение: Шестьдесят шесть раз эти глаза Могли любоваться осенью. Ничего не спрашивай. Прислушайся к гудению сосен в полное безветрие.

Уинстон Черчилль к концу очень устал от жизни, и его последние слова были такими: «Как мне все это надоело».

Александр Дюма: «Так я и не узнаю, чем все закончится».

Антон Чехов умер в немецком курортном городке Баденвейлер. Немецкий врач угостил его шампанским (по старой немецкой врачебной традиции доктор, поставивший своему коллеге смертельный диагноз, угощает умирающего шампанским). Чехов сказал «Ich sterbe», выпил бокал до дна, и сказал: «Давно я не пил шампанского».

Михаил Зощенко: «Оставьте меня в покое».

Леонардо да Винчи: «Я оскорбил Бога и людей! Мои произведения не достигли той высоты, к которой я стремился!»

Американский бизнесмен Абрагим Хьюит сорвал с лица маску кислородного аппарата и сказал: «Оставьте! Я уже мертв...»

Знаменитый английский хирург Джозеф Грин по врачебной привычке мерил свой пульс. «Пульс пропал» — сказал он.

Американский писатель, автор юмористических книг для детей Джеймс Тербер: «Благослови, Господи, черт побери!»

Известный английский режиссер Ноэль Хауард почувствовав, что умирает, сказал: «Спокойной ночи, мои дорогие. Увидимся завтра».

Последним словом расстрелянного Берии было короткое: «Скоты!»

Сжечь - не значит опровергнуть!" (Д. Бруно предсмертные слова)

Сталин придет! (предсмертные слова Зои Космодемьянской)

Ленин умер, будучи помрачён в разуме. Он просил у стола и стульев прощения за свои грехи. Римский император и тиран Нерон перед смертью вскричал: «Какой великий артист умирает!» Язычник, царь Веспасиан, умерший через одиннадцать лет после Нерона, прошептал: «Я думаю, что теперь я стану богом!»

Графиня Дюбарри, подруга Людовика XV, всходя на гильотину, обратилась к палачу со словами: «Постарайтесь, чтобы мне не было больно!»

Шотландский историк Томас Карлейль, умирая, спокойно сказал: "Так вот она какая, эта смерть!".

Королева Мария Антуанетта перед казнью была совершенно спокойна. Всходя на эшафот, она оступилась и наступила палачу на ногу: "Простите, пожалуйста, месье, я это сделала случайно...".

Автор известного высказывания "мысль изреченная есть ложь" Федор Тютчев перед смертью сказал: "Какая мука, что не можешь найти слово, чтобы передать мысль".

Когда умирал прусский король Фридрих I, священник у его одра читал молитвы. На словах "нагим я пришел в этот мир и нагим уйду" Фридрих оттолкнул его рукой и воскликнул: "Не смейте хоронить меня нагим, не в парадной форме!"

Последние слова Пабло Пикассо вдохновили Пола Маккартни настолько, что "экс-битл" процитировал в одной из самых известных своих песен: "Выпейте за меня, выпейте за мое здоровье, вы знаете, что я не могу больше пить..."

Лев Николаевич Толстой последние дни своей жизни провел на захолустной железнодорожной станции Астапово. В 83 года граф решил порвать с упорядоченным, благополучным существованием в Ясной Поляне. В сопровождении дочери и домашнего доктора он уехал инкогнито, в вагоне третьего класса. В пути простудился, началось воспаление легких. Последние слова Толстого, сказанные им утром 7 ноября 1910 года уже в забытьи, были: "Люблю истину" (по другой версии, он сказал - "Не понимаю").

великий Гете сказал: «Больше света!», но меньше известно, что перед этим он спросил доктора, сколько ему еще осталось жить, и, когда тот сказал, что только один час, Гете облегченно вздохнул со словами: «Слава Богу, только час!..»

Особым цинизмом звучали слова испанского генерала, государственного деятеля Рамона Нарваэса, умершего в 1868 году. На вопрос священника, простил ли он своим врагам, он криво улыбнулся и ответил: «Мне не у кого просить прощения. Все мои враги расстреляны».

Умирая, Франц Иосиф Австро-Венгерский тихо напевал гимн, гласивший: «Боже, храни нашего царя Франца Иосифа, нашего доброго царя…».

Умирая в Нью-Йорке от тяжкого сердечного припадка, Вышинский успел прошептать: «А это была большая ошибка…»

А вот последние слова Эйнштейна канули в Лету - сиделка не знала немецкого...

@темы: Что-то другое

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Милое творение...

...сие не отпускает уже несколько дней.
Похоже, можно и повесить.
Страшный Артемис!!!

@музыка: Властелины Вселенной

@темы: Entreri, Drizzt

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Орёл, походные наброски.

Три дня жизни, ушедшие в песок.
Короткие наброски.
1. Россия - великая страна.
2. Едешь в чужой город - не лови машину, не бери такси на вокзале/в аэропорте, а узнай заранее телефонный номер и вызови. Дешевле. Проверено.
3. Три бабы в незнакомом городе могут, да нет, обязательно натворят делов, о которых будут вспоминать, заливаясь краской и глупо глумливо хихикая.
4. Есть три раза в день - это нормально. Нормально. Нормально...
5. Гулять по лесу в +40 - наоборот.
6. Баня - это хорошо раз в год. По обещанию. За компанию.
7. Не пищать, когда из +115 прыгаешь в ледяной бассейн. Мои уши, мои уши...
8. Тащить с собой малознакомого парня в баню - сомнительно. Но двое дамЪ, жалостливо смотрящих в глаза - ещё сомнительнее.
9. iPod - сила, которая спасёт мир и вообще всю Вселенную.
10. "Гадкий Я" - очень хороший и красивый мультфильм, к просмотру обязателен в 3D.
11. Ужастики в 5D: родись заново!
12. Незнакомые маршрутки в незнакомом городе ещё не факт, что едут не туда.
13. Парк аттракционов - вполне взрослое развлечение.
14. Отключили горячую воду? У некоторых отключили вообще любую воду.
15. Дорогу осилит идущий.
16. Сообщники! В Орле есть гостиница "Салют", в ней - сувенирная лавка, продавец которой, похоже, единственный в городе фанат Сальваторе. За возможность обсудить с кем-нибудь творчество сего великого писателя готов устроить бесплатную экскурсию по городу. Или поставить в церкви свечку за здравие.
17. Коллекция брелков перевалила за 300.
18. Боулинг и длинные ногти несовместимы. Доказано.
19. DDR правит миром!!!
20. Сахарная вата и карамельные петушки тоже вполне взрослое развлечение.
21. Личная жизнь не бывает настолько плоха, чтобы даже задумываться о знакомствах с пьяным быдлом.
22. Все бабские разговоры кончаются сплетнями или обсуждением секса. Обычно оба варианта идут рука об руку.
23. Ехать в ночь на поезде, если можно днём - изощрённая садистская пытка.

И последнее: когда на вокзале в 6 утра тебя встречает любимый мужчина, не являющийся твоим кровным родственником, понимаешь, как же у вас на самом деле всё серьёзно.

@темы: походные наброски, Что-то другое

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О как!

 Shii, наидобрейшего времени суток!
Для тебя - welcome'ный список подарков.

часть 1, для мужчин

jasmin 19.10.20 4:21 вот ты лучше посоветуй, что дарить мужчине на 36-летие, человеку с претензиями, которому угодить сложно, все есть и ничего ему не нужно
Morant 19.10.20 4:22 коран. неприменно. самый лучший подарок. ибо Аллах, как водицца, акбар
jasmin 19.10.20 4:22 )))))
Morant 19.10.20 4:23 массажер седалищного нерва. с гидроприводом от красноярской ГЭС.
Morant 19.10.20 4:23 устоять невозможно
Morant 19.10.20 4:24 подарите ему блюм или сляп цезия-238. нехай светицца от щастья )
Morant 19.10.20 4:25 аудиокассету с благославлением Папы римского на одной стороне и 3х часовым смехом гоголя на другой
jasmin 19.10.20 4:26 богатая у тебя фантазия
Morant 19.10.20 4:26 да это я тут гранями мерцаю
Morant 19.10.20 4:27 еще подарки нужны?
jasmin 19.10.20 4:27 да, что-то ничего дельного не назвал ))
Morant 19.10.20 4:28 а мужчина крупный?
Morant 19.10.20 4:28 рогатый? )
jasmin 19.10.20 4:29 нет ))
Morant 19.10.20 4:29 дельное - это ключ на 12, и гайка с обратной конической резьбой. Вещь в хозяйстве бесценная
Morant 19.10.20 4:30 рогатому - можно предложить чехол на рога из кожи бенгальской нутрий
Morant 19.10.20 4:31 нерогатому - чехла предложить нельзя.
Morant 19.10.20 4:31 рогатому можно, нерогатому нельзя.
jasmin 19.10.20 4:31 я так понимаю толку от тебя, как от курицы молока
Morant 19.10.20 4:32 птичье молоко, по вашему, из овцебыков делают?
Morant 19.10.20 4:33 вечная игла для примуса. вещь в себе.
Morant 19.10.20 4:34 кошка, которая гуляет сама по себе. (это вроде ленты мебиуса, или бутылки клейна)
jasmin 19.10.20 4:35 ну я же серьезно спрашиваю )) жизненно-важный вопрос, можно сказать ))
Morant 19.10.20 4:35 опиши клиента
jasmin 19.10.20 4:36 .. ) высокий брюнет с голубыми глазами ))
Morant 19.10.20 4:37 вес?
Morant 19.10.20 4:37 в обществе
Morant 19.10.20 4:37 и на весах
Morant 19.10.20 4:37 истории
Morant 19.10.20 4:37 служил ли? в каком полку? Кирилловец?
Morant 19.10.20 4:38 знаком ли с Пуришкевичем? Милюковым?
jasmin 19.10.20 4:38 не был. не служил, не привлекался))
Morant 19.10.20 4:39 запутанный случай.
Morant 19.10.20 4:40 нужен консилиум. с обязательным участием светил офтальмологии, генеалогии, и обязательно один проктолог-иллюзионист.
Morant 19.10.20 4:40 жди здесь. никуда не уходи
jasmin 19.10.20 4:40 )))
Morant 19.10.20 4:41 можно подарить всех кошек куклачева.
Morant 19.10.20 4:41 вместе с куклачевым.
jasmin 19.10.20 4:41 кошки исключаются))
Morant 19.10.20 4:41 тогда один куклачев. будет у вас жить.
Morant 19.10.20 4:42 тоже, кстати, вещь в себе
Morant 19.10.20 4:42 хотя, подарок явно с тайным умыслом.
jasmin 19.10.20 4:42 ))
Morant 19.10.20 4:44 фотопанно - сцена битвы лулубеев с древлянами и вятичами. 1.5м х 600м.
jasmin 19.10.20 4:45 некудышный из тебя помошник ))
Morant 19.10.20 4:45 рога от троллейбуса. Есть знакомый, большой дока, поможет подобрать.
Morant 19.10.20 4:46 шубу из меха, с гузок муравьев.
Morant 19.10.20 4:47 исшитую биссером до безобразия
jasmin 19.10.20 4:47 )
Morant 19.10.20 4:49 Переписку Гумилева с Зинаидой Гипиус и Ольгой Форш. с пятнами от слез последней.
jasmin 19.10.20 4:50 ладно, сама разберусь, спасибо за помощь ))
Morant 19.10.20 4:50 Очень назидательным подарком будет реторта с личинками дельфинов.
Morant 19.10.20 4:53 Приказ о назначении пехотинцем в третий драгунский полк. Во вторую фалангу. Резервную. на случай войны.
jasmin 19.10.20 4:53 )))))
Morant 19.10.20 4:53 Кадило. С годовым запасом елея.
Morant 19.10.20 4:54 как бонус - свод внутренних правил синагоги для мальчиков 2-5 лет.
jasmin 19.10.20 4:54
Morant 19.10.20 4:55 соответственно она пойдет с атеистической брошюркой, с эмпирическими доказательствами, что Бога - нет.
Morant 19.10.20 4:55 также дарят пулю - дуру. И штыка - молодца.
Morant 19.10.20 4:56 пуанты Шакила О"Нила, 56го размера.
jasmin 19.10.20 4:57 очень ценные у тебя идеи, воспользуюсь как-нибудь, но не в этом случае))
Morant 19.10.20 4:58 смерть кащея. в яйце фаберже
Morant 19.10.20 4:59 наручные часы с кукушкой. Носимые Адмиралом Нельсоном и Нельсоном Манделлой
jasmin 19.10.20 4:59 )
Morant 19.10.20 5:00 приятно удивит и несомненно порадует взвод нумидийских всадников. под предводительством храбреца Гнея Помпилия.
Morant 19.10.20 5:01 отчаянного храбреца и сорви-головы Гнея Помпилия.
Morant 19.10.20 5:02 суровый воин.
Morant 19.10.20 5:02 скажет - как отрежет.
jasmin 19.10.20 5:02 отойду на 5 минут
Morant 19.10.20 5:04 двухгодичный абонемент на посещение кумранских пещер. льготный.
Morant 19.10.20 5:07 лекало, по которому Фараон Аменхотеп кроил исподнее самодержцу и самодуру Туккультининурту.
Morant 19.10.20 5:09 эпосы Гильгамеша "о все видавшем", со стихами группы "Руки Вверх"
jasmin 19.10.20 5:09 угомонись уже )) лучше бы спать шел..вот что ты в 5 утра сидишь в интернете, скажи мне
Morant 19.10.20 5:10 вообще я в армавире, в командировке, пришел из ночного клуба. фонтанирую. пойми меня правильно
jasmin 19.10.20 5:12 армавир это хде?))
Morant 19.10.20 5:12 краснодарский край. заметь, я не делаю из этого секрета.
jasmin 19.10.20 5:13 ) смешной ты
Morant 19.10.20 5:15 рад.очень рад.царь.
Morant 19.10.20 5:26 я предлагаю все ж подарить рога. когда я вернусь. в рогах есть пантокрин. очень полезно для 36летнего дяди
jasmin 19.10.20 5:27 )) понятия не имею что-такое пантокрин, а 36-летний дядя фору даст любому 20-ти летнему))
Morant 19.10.20 5:28 тото Вы в 5 утра у монитора
Morant 19.10.20 5:28 видимо фору дает? )
Morant 19.10.20 5:29 все. я начал хамить. звиняйте, мадам. убегаю спать )

Morant 20.10.20 23:56 Одарен?
Morant 20.10.20 23:57 здрасьте.
jasmin 20.10.20 23:57 привет)
Morant 20.10.20 23:58 как избранник? справил 36летие, дай Аллах ему здравия, да уродяцца у него финики, ныне, пристно и во веки веков
jasmin 20.10.20 23:59 злобные пожелания)) нет, не справил, еще неделя до дня рождения ))
jasmin 21.10.20 0:00 зато подарок придумала уже ))
Morant 21.10.20 0:00 надеюсь из списка?
Morant 21.10.20 0:00 неужели абонемент в пещеры?!
jasmin 21.10.20 0:00 нет ))
jasmin 21.10.20 0:00 нет ))
Morant 21.10.20 0:02 Неужели банальный гироскопический синхростабилизатор для спутника-шпиона КР-т 629, модификации "с"?!
jasmin 21.10.20 0:03 ))))))
jasmin 21.10.20 0:03 тоже нет ))
Morant 21.10.20 0:03 тогда не знаю
Morant 21.10.20 0:03 говори
Morant 21.10.20 0:03 не томи
jasmin 21.10.20 0:04 да и не догадаешься никогда ))
Morant 21.10.20 0:04 среди сверстников я с детства не славился фантазией
Morant 21.10.20 0:04 куда уж мне
jasmin 21.10.20 0:05 нет, расскажу позже , когда подарок дойдет до адресата )
Morant 21.10.20 0:06 ну хоть намекни.
jasmin 21.10.20 0:06 живое )
jasmin 21.10.20 0:06 из мира фауны
Morant 21.10.20 0:06 дрожжи?
jasmin 21.10.20 0:06 )))
Morant 21.10.20 0:06 споры бледной спирохеты?
jasmin 21.10.20 0:07 )))))
Morant 21.10.20 0:07 палочка коха?
jasmin 21.10.20 0:07 нет, какие-то извращенные у тебя фантазии ))
Morant 21.10.20 0:08 тогда однозначно это мунтжак или сиворерий. Хотя это слишком просто...
jasmin 21.10.20 0:09 это еще что за сиворерий с мунтжаком?))
Morant 21.10.20 0:09 МУНТЖАКИ (Muntiacinae) (Подсемейство) Небольшие олени, у которых пеньки рогов длинные, а спадающая часть маленькая.
jasmin 21.10.20 0:10 )))))
jasmin 21.10.20 0:10 нет, значительно меньших размеров.. )
Morant 21.10.20 0:13 мумия владимира ильича крупского?
Morant 21.10.20 0:13 ибо он жил жив и будет жить
Morant 21.10.20 0:13 ленин всегда с тобой, ленин всегда живой
jasmin 21.10.20 0:14 не спрашивай, говорю же расскажу, но не сейчас

часть 2, для "не мужчин"

Bond 30.10.20 15:59 Ты вот пишешь, что подарить мущщине, а можешь подсказать,что дарить "не мужчинам"?
Morant 30.10.20 15:59 "Не мужчинам" - это кому? Мужчинкам? Ах ты шалун!.
Bond 30.10.20 16 0 )))))) Неее, женщинам
Morant 30.10.20 16 1 Спираль накаливания (женскую) и прокладки с изменяемой геометрией крыла
Bond 30.10.20 16 2 )))) Ну а если посерьезнее?
Morant 30.10.20 16 2 дружище, женщины особы многогранные как октаэдр и загадочные как глаза лохнесского чудища. Тут так, с бухты-барахты не разберешь. Дай три дня сроку, барин
Bond 30.10.20 16 4 Ну хотя бы пару примеров
Morant 30.10.20 16 4 А женщина то, постарше 14 лет будет ась?
Bond 30.10.20 16 4 )) Ага. Почти вдвое )
Morant 30.10.20 16 5 ну тада бери ручку. А лучше сделай себе татуировку, чтоб не забыть. Самый лучший подарок, это провести с ней ночь так, чтобы запах паленой резины не выветривался с месяц
Morant 30.10.20 16 5 А бабки на лавочке долго цыкали зубом тебе вслед и качали головами
Bond 30.10.20 16 6 )))))
Morant 30.10.20 16 6 кстати, подарком может стать кондом Pirelli.Низкопрофильный. С водоотводами, нейлоновым кордом и позолоченным ниппелем.
Bond 30.10.20 16 6 Гы!! Это надо запомнить )))))))
Morant 30.10.20 16 7 Хотя можно подойти к вопросу научно. С интегралами, формулой Лагранжа и принципом Гюйгенса-Френеля. Что материального хочет женщина?
Bond 30.10.20 16 8 Ну типа шмотки там... цветы...
Morant 30.10.20 16 9 прально, одёжы поболе, цветов покраше, драгоценностей из самоцветов заморских, и всяких мазей, кремов и прочего, именуемого "баночки". Это 98% всех подарков.
Morant 30.10.20 16:10 Исходя из этого надо дарить убор, шитый золотом узор
Morant 30.10.20 16:10 кокошник или капор, скроенный заботливыми руками Данилы мастера. Без казеинового клея и единого гвоздя
Morant 30.10.20 16:11 В свете грядущей суровой зимы сам собой напрашивается вот такой вот нехитрый гостинец - колготки ГолденЛеди, на основе стекловаты. С периодом полураспада 2 года.
Bond 30.10.20 16:11 ))))) ну началось! ) может я просто помолчу? ))
Morant 30.10.20 16:12 колготки могут быть со штрипками и гульфиком. А гульфик может быть, хотя нет, просто обязан быть кружевной
Morant 30.10.20 16:12 колготки Омса не покупай. Они знают все о твоих желаниях и сдадут при первом шухере
Bond 30.10.20 16:12 )))))))))))))))00 не буду
Morant 30.10.20 16:13 нижнее белье. Непременно из войлока или канифаса. Чтобы сносу не было. И стирать пару раз в году. На день железнодорожника и славный еврейский праздник Йом-Кипур.
Morant 30.10.20 16:14 парадный плюмаж для выхода в свет и косметику на основе фосфора для выхода в тень
Morant 30.10.20 16:16 гениальный подарок - это длинный белый шарф. Дарится вместе с портретом Айседоры Дункан. Богатые люди дарят в довесок к шарфу кабриолет.
Morant 30.10.20 16:17 высоко будет оценена обувка, скажем бабуши или торбасы из шкуры морского ежа(ужа)
Morant 30.10.20 16:18 Серебряные башмачки, отнятые у состарившийся, но отчайно сопротивлявшейся Элли из изумрудного города.
Morant 30.10.20 16:18 туфельки-лодочки, туфельки бригантиночки, туфельки канонерки с алыми парусами.
Morant 30.10.20 16:18 и туфлю авианосец. С водоизмещением 300 тыс. тонн. На зависть подружкам-кокеткам
Morant 30.10.20 16:20 испанский сапожок. ну и в комплект - колумбийский галстук.
Morant 30.10.20 16:20 Галстук нельзя дарить без строгого костюма. Смирительнгого. С плеча Фридриха Ницше.
Bond 30.10.20 16:20 Ты курил что ли? скока можна так гнать? ))))))))))))0
Morant 30.10.20 16:21 Рукодельница придет в восторг от коклюшки, пялец и ткацкого станка с путиловского завода, размером с два спортзала.
Morant 30.10.20 16:21 Необходимо также дарить веретено, и подставку для лучины. А для вящего освещения - канделябр жирандоль.
Morant 30.10.20 16:23 если дама неприхотлива в быту, то верный подарок - коленкоровое постельное белье и рубероидная простыня. (Подушка набивается свинцовыми болванками)
Morant 30.10.20 16:24 праздничный вечер несомненно скрасит Бутылка карминьяно или бургундского с отпечатками пальцев кардинала Ришелье и следами его любопытных зубов на пробке
Morant 30.10.20 16:24 а в назидание, что ужиться могут даже осел с лошадью дарят лошака или непокорного мула с томными, как у Анны Ахматовой глазами
Morant 30.10.20 16:26 Кстати, тема домашних животных не должна отходить на второй план. Ты слышишь?!
Bond 30.10.20 16:26 да. Че, крысу шушуру предложишь? ))
Morant 30.10.20 16:27 Не колеблясь дари собаку породы сарлосвольфхонд чтобы тренировала дикцию.
Morant 30.10.20 16:29 хитрый подарок - это попугай знающий 3 языка. Паскаль, вижуал бейсик и ассемблер. А к попугаю надо дарить одноногого пирата Билли-Бонса. Будет пахнуть ромом, а ночью, пойдя пописать, будет будить полдома, стуча культей по паркету.
Morant 30.10.20 16:29 номерок на прием к доктору Живаго, Борменталю и профессору Преображенскому.
Morant 30.10.20 16:30 проездной на фуникулер в Шамани. И одну лыжную палку. Так.. для куража.
Morant 30.10.20 16:31 Да, о проездных. Если мадмуазель склонна к перидромофилии то можно подарить билет из Баден-бадена в Нижнекундрючинск. На все виды транспорта. Включая рикшу и Буран.
Bond 30.10.20 16:32 ) К чему она склонна?
Morant 30.10.20 16:33 скупой мужчина может отделаться безделушкой: стеклярусом, губной гармошкой или зубным порошком. Порошок для интриги присылают в конверте. С обратным адресом, писанным арабской вязью.
Morant 30.10.20 16:34 нескупой просто обязан дарить диадему, весом с хороший арбуз, алмаз Шах и перстень Али-Бабы. Али мужика. .. не знаю.
Morant 30.10.20 16:36 если женщина худая, то можно подарить пару пудов леденцов ландрин, монпасье или калач "кантуччи"
Morant 30.10.20 16:37 если не худая - дарить тоже можно, но только в амуниции тефтонского рыцаря. Сидя в окопе. В сопредельном государстве. Через 4х посредников.
Morant 30.10.20 16:40 многие женщины любят запахи. Поэтому дари сыр родамер, рамболь или альпидамер.
Bond 30.10.20 16:40 ))))))
Morant 30.10.20 16:41 Женщине, следящей за собой, отличным подарком придется косметика: молочко там всякое. кефирчик, ряженочка и сметаночка.
Bond 30.10.20 16:41 Да, дельные подарки )
Morant 30.10.20 16:42 Очень дельный подарок - это книга "Дело" чудо-мастера пера Сухова-Кобылина.
Morant 30.10.20 16:43 а еще заготовку под дуршлаг, миллиметровое сверло и мешок терпения.
Morant 30.10.20 16:46 Если дома не у чего посидеть, то смело дари мебель. Например: разбитое корыто.
Bond 30.10.20 16:46 ))) не.. это не надо.
Morant 30.10.20 16:46 по любому поводу дари ридикюль. Просто потому что смешное слово.
Morant 30.10.20 16:48 Открытую чакру... точно. чакру и глаз Брамы. прищуренный, с бельмом
Morant 30.10.20 16:49 Набор для ворожбы на травах. Набор-ассорти.и членский билет секты аум-синрике с правом посещать бесплатные обеды
Morant 30.10.20 16:51 Великолепный ансамбль-букет из рододендронов и папоротника кочедыжника.
Bond 30.10.20 16:52 )))))) все,хватит.. на меня уже как на дурака тут смотрят. Потом почитаю Спасибо, поржал ))))
Morant 30.10.20 16:52 Контрольный пакет акций космопорта под ельцом. ну и канатную дорогу на луну. в лизинг на 400 лет
Morant 30.10.20 16:53 Сковороду из Виллариба. Для яичницы. в комплекте с нею яйца звероящера дейноцефала, ныне покойного.
Morant 30.10.20 16:55 и обязательно масло мягкое, деревенское. нарочным из Шушенского.
Morant 30.10.20 16:55 до кучи - веселого молочника и веселую молочницу.
Morant 30.10.20 16:57 плюшевого дуремара. Дйствующую модель 1:43. на червячно-гусенечном ходу.
Morant 30.10.20 17 0 немало удивит контрамарка на состязание роботов-гитаристов. гитаристов. гитаристов.
Morant 30.10.20 17 0 квитанция о штрафе. за провоз багажом двух карликов. валетом
Morant 30.10.20 17 0 приключение Электроника. в электронном виде.
Morant 30.10.20 17 1 Все... думаю тебе хватит. Ступай с миром, брат. Воздев хоругви смеха на смоляные древки. Да и мне пора
Bond 30.10.20 17 5 Давай. Спасибо!
Morant 30.10.20 17 5 Заходи если что. Не стесняйся


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@темы: Что-то другое

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Оппаньки...

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Для Вас - скромный такой цитатничеГ.

История мира согласно сочинениям американских студентов

Библейская легенда утверждает, что беда началась после того, как Евасъела Золотое яблоко раздора. Это был запретительный плод. ОбозленныйБог наслал кары. Человек выпал из пространства благодати. С тех пор все катится под гору.

Предыстория, предмет, изучаемый в основном антропаологами, была до 1500года. Когда животные не были доступны, люди ели орехи и ягоди.Общественное разделение труда началось, когда племя разбивалось на охотников и обирателей. Нововведения изобретались в межгалактический период.

Пирамиды были большими квадратными треугольниками, построенными в пустыне. О’Сирис, бог, живший в пирамиде, мог даровать вам послежизнь если ваша дыша была прямой.

Со временем египтяне утонули в пустыне.

Месапатамия находилась рядом с рекой Эвкалипт.

В Египте жили только египтяне, а в Вавилоне жиле сумерцы, акадии и канадцы.

Шумерская культура, самая старая, началась за 3500 лет до Рождества.

Людям дозволялись демократические свободы вроде взимания зуба за зуб и глаза за глаз.

Хаммурапи был юрист, живший между 1600 и 1200 г. до н. э.

Ассирийская программа уничтожения различных этнических групп послужила причиной неудачи культурного разнообразия.

Персидская империя была основана Медеей.

Зорроастрология была основана Зорро. Это была дуэлистическая религия.

История еврейского народа начинается с Авраама, Исаака и их 12 детей.

Дзиудаизм был первой монолитической религией. В нем был один бог по имени «Яху». Пороки Ветхого Завета были Моисей и Конфуций.

Иисус Христос приказал Моисею вывести народ из Египта в пустыню Сахару. Книга Исхода описывает путешествие и удивительные вещи, произошедшие за ее время, включая Десять заповедей, различные спецэффекты и строительство Суэцкого канала.

Сорок столетий спустя они прибыли в Канаду. Это и была обещанная земля молока и шоколада.

Ноев Ковчег закончил свой путь у горы Арафат.

Давид был вымышленным характером в Библии, который сражался с Гильгамешем, одетый в пращу. Он ублажал народ и защищал его от нападения филиппинцев.

Троянская война разгорелась между греками и тори. Греки выиграли, потому что у них были деревянные кони, а троянцы сражались пешими.

Мы знаем об этом благодаря Гомеровской истории об Одиссее Гранте и Илиаде, оставленной им жене.

Царь Персии Ксерокс напал на Грецию, но пал во время битвы при Термосалями. Филипп Мастодонский захватил Грецию, но затем был убит в семейной разборке.

Александр Великий завоевал Персию, Египет и Японию.

Философы атомисты открыли принцип е = мс2.

Платон изобрел реальность. Он был учителем Гаррис Тотеля, автора книги «Республиканцы».

Э. В. Клид доказал, что у каждой плоскости не одна сторона.

Пифагор стал отцом треугольника.

Древние греки начали Олимпийские игры около 1896 года.

Рим был основан дядей Ремусом и волком.

Около 120 до н. э. братья Грецки покончили с несправедливосями патрициев.

Спартак возглавил восстание рабов, а позже снялся в фильме об этом.

Хуннибал пересек Альпы со стадом слонов, вторгнувшись в Африку.

Сципиона назвали Африканским, так как он служил в Испании.

Когда Цезаря убивали, он воскликнул: «И я, Брут! ».

Август (также известный как Октопавиан), основал Римскую Католическую Империю. Символом его власти был крест.

У римлян мозги были меньше и практичней, чем у греков. Языческими философами в Риме были Цицерон, Марк Аорта и Св. Иероним.

До рождения Христа христианство было одним из многих тайных культов.

Мария и Иосиф шли от гостиницы к гостинице, пытаясь найти место для рождения Иисуса, но им везде отказывали, потому что они были евреями.

Христианин начал новую религию с пословиц вроде «Крот унаследует землю». К счастью, потом от этой идеи отказались.

Св. Иероним отказался верить в секс.

Император Константин стал христианином после того, как на поле битвы его преследовал неоновый крест.

Многие теории о падении Римской империи были совершенно безосновательными. Например, недостаток религии, избыток рабства, нехватка воды и курение из свинцовых трубок.

Волна готов, хюнов и зулусов затронула Рим.

Гунн Афинна вторгся на Балканы до самой Франции.

Когда австралийские готы добрались, наконец, до Италии, они устали от грабежа и нуждались в отдыхе.

Во время Средних веков все были среднего возраста. Монашки были в основном женщинами, заключенными в гаремы.

Право первой ночи позволяло лордам проводить свадебную ночь с невестой вместо мужа.

Киевское государство было ослаблено гражданской войной, потому что у князя Владимира сыновей было больше, чем надо, в результате нескольких жен и многих наложниц.

Джихад стал богом суахили.

Турки наслаждались пиком могущества.

Марго Поло побывала у Кукла-хана, который руководил Китаем.

Россия, которой управлял Бату Коэн, надломилась под монгольским ярмом.

Двести лет правления татартов объясняют, почему Россия такая отсталая.

Империя МакГолов возникла в Индии, где некоторые племена практиковали вуду.

Короли ненавидели власть пап, что привело к Боливийскому пленению пап. Французский король переселил пап в Аризону, чтобы лучше за ними приглядывать.

Иоанн Гус отказался отказаться от своих идей и был поджарен, как отбивная.

Губонная чума была социальным заболеванием, поскольку передавалась половым путем и всякими итакдалиями. От чумы у людей вырастали губы на шее. В некоторых городах смертность превысила сто процентов.

Макакиавелли, часто бывший безработным, написал «Государя», чтобы получить работу у Ричарда Никсона.

Фердинанд и Изабелла завоевали Гранолу, часть Испании, сейчас известную как Мексика и страны Персидского залива.

Кортес руководил небольшой группой тореадоров, которые с легкостью покорили обитателей Нью-Мексико.

Викинги, конечно, уже доплыли до Колорадо, где до сих пор виднеются остатки их лагерей.

Иоганн Калвин Кляйн перевел Библию на американский, чтобы люди Женевы могли ее прочесть.

Папы Римские, конечно, обычно были католиками.

Игнатий Лойола основал орден иезуитов и множество других колледжей в США.

Если бы испанцы захватили Нидерланды, они могли бы получить земли по всей северной Европе, которые включили бы Италию, Ургундию, центральную Европу и Индию - таким образом, они бы окружили Францию.

Людовик XIV стал королем Солнца.

Священная Оманская империя развалилась, как карточный домик.

Прага была столицей Булимии.

Король Джеймс Стюарт Чарльз Первый был обезглавлен в 1649 году и восстановлен несколько лет спустя.

Обратная сторона окраины востока была населена русскими, которые в это время не знали ничего. Одним из факторов было использование цилиндрического алфавита. Петр Первый заполнил свой кабинет случайными людьми и построил новую столицу около европейской границы.

Коперник доказал, что солнечная система вращается вокруг Земли. Галилей следовал теории Коперника, за что церковь заставила его изучать механику всю оставшуюся жизнь.

Дидро стал известным энциклистом. Вольтер написал книгу «Кэнди», из-за которой он попал в неприятность с Фридрихом Великим, который нес личную ответственность за увеличение населения Пруссии на треть.

Бостонское чаепитие было проведено в Перл-Харборе.

Последней соломинкой в пачке «Кэмэла» стало изобретение Бенджамином Франклином электрической лампочки.

Транссибирская магистраль соединила Европу с Калифорнией.

Самолет был изобретен братьями Маркс.

Мария Кюри получила Ноэлевскую премию за изобретение радиатора.

Декамбристы в России устроили дежурный переворот.

Карл Маркс изобрел теорию диаволического матернализма. Согласно Марксу, этапы истории - это канибализм, рабство, фьордолизм, капитализм и опять канибализм.

Бакунин был известным анахронистом.

Анархизм - система правительства, которую возглавляет Анарх. Канада стала анархией в 1867 году.

Там была и новая Германия: громкая, лысая, вульгарная и полная реальности. Германское единство было достигнуто соединением Вильгельма Первого и Бисмарка, который после нескольких болезненных конвульсий стал первым Гейзером Германии.

Автоманская империя оставалась с больным Европы.

Гражданская война в США началась в 1830. Многие солдаты неоднократно отдавали жизнь за свою страну.

Пикассо был знаменитым художником, нарисовавшим Мону Лизу.

Другой немецкий композитор экспериментировал с двенадцатистоновой гаммой.

У Франции был Чехов, драматизировавший приключения о совращении и абортах.

Немое кино вышло из моды к 1850 г.

Фридрих Ницше был немецкий кинопродюсер, написавший «Триумф Воли» и «Супермена».

Большая часть англичан верила в миссионерскую позицию.

Согласно Джорджу Оруэллу, британцы сократили Бирму до городка на севере Индии.

Европейцы в Индии практиковали импеарилистические ценности друг на друге, примером чего служит поэма Рудьярда Киссинджера «Бремя белого человека».

Во время революции Бейджи Япония стала европейской страной.

Русско-японская война началась между Японией и Италией. Бурская война за золото в Южной Африке велась между Англией и Данией.

Авто фон Бисмарк удерживал обе стороны от середины. Эрг-герцог Рудольф воспользовался отрядом самоубийц, чтобы убить себя и свою подружку.

Русская революция 1905 года началась примерно в 1907 году. К сожалению, царь был под влиянием льстецов. Тройственный Союз столкнулся с НАТО, что было устроено Бисмарком, который тогда работал на Цезаря.

Пять сильных европейских стран были Англия, Франция, Германия, Россия и Австрало-Монголия.

Французы решили размножаться до смерти, чтобы отвоевать Верден. Многие, тем не менее, умерли тщетно.

Италия присоединилась к Союзникам, что было удобно ввиду ее границы с Австралией.

Флоуренс Аравийский воевал в пустынне.

Царская Россия была отсталой, несмотря на усилия государства развить военно-промышленый комплекс и космические технологии.

Средний класс в России назывался большевицким.

Среди крестьян свирепствовал коммунизм.

Царь Николай позволили своей жене поставить себя в болезненное положение. Ко всему, его сын был поставлен диагноз гемофилателия, от которой он падал и сильно разбивался. Все это было предсказано Лениным в книге «Капитализм: высшая стадия социализма».

В 1937 году Ленин начал революцию в России, после того, как немцы выслали его домой в запечатанном поезде.

Ататюрк потребовал от своего народа следования моде и запретил носить тюрбины.

Некоторые, вроде Джона Пола Сартра, обратились к экстратеррестриализму.

Леннон правил в России. Он был первым царем Советского Союза. После его смерти СССР правил триумвират из пяти человек - Сталина, Ленина, Троцкого, Меньшевика и Буканана.

Когда планы срывались, Сталин использовал кулаков как козлов упущения.

Стеклянная ночь имела место, когда Гитлер приказал нацистам разбить все окна. В качестве нацистского лидера коммунистической Германии Гитлер хотел все для себя и ничего для всех. Эти погромы массовой пропаганды отражены в книге Адольфа Хаксли «1984 год».

Япония разбомбила Перл-Харбор, главную базу ВМС на юге Калифорнии.

Германия напала на Польшу, Франция напала на Бельгию, а Россия напала на всех.

Гитлеровская атака на Россию называлась «План Барбарелла». Некоторое время немецкие захватчики были популярны в России, но их привычка убивать невинных жителей создала им проблемы с имиджем. Русские яростно защищали Сталинград, так как он был назван в честь Ленина.

Сталин, Рузвельт, Черчиль и Трумэн были известны как «Большая тройка».

Гитлер впал в депрессию и заполз под Берлин. Там он усыпил свою жену Эвиту и застрелился в ункере.

Вторая мировая война стала Холодной, потому что Бенджамин Франклин Рузвельт не верил Ленину и Сталину. Жалезный занавесь упал на Европу.

Израиль был основал несмотря на протесты местных арабов, известных как «сионисты».

Русские вторглись в Венгрию, чтобы показать полякам, что почем.

Президент Кеннеди тесно сотрудничал с русскими, чтобы решить Канадский ракетный кризис.

Это заставило США вмешаться в дела в избранных бандановых республиках.

Мохаммад Ганди был последним британским правителем Индии. Он приобрел известность, используя мир как оружие.

Со времен Второй мировой известными женщинами были Королева Елизавета и Индия Ганди.

Ментально говоря, Россия должна была изобрести себя заново. После смерти Сталина был допрос, длившийся три года, когда Хрущев критиковал Сталина за прегрешения вроде убийства кулаков. Это привело к внедрению многих западных идей в России, как, например, использование стриптизерш в клубах.

Графа жизни Никиты Хрущева кажется оттиском выворачивающего внутренности катания на карусели, которое называется метаморфозой. Одной из наименее удачной идей было освоение Девственных земель, где ожидалось произрастание молока и сливочного масла в неожиданных местах.

Горбачев стал главным русским после смерти Леонида Большевика.

Румынский Чау Ше Ску был удален со своего педистала.

Война в Персидском заливе началась после того, как Сатан Хусейн вторгся в Киви и Сосудовскую Аравию.

Общественность кажется не умнее стада леммингов, движущихся к откосу. Так поток сознания превратился в водопад.

@темы: Что-то другое

---

And On...

Заключительная часть истории.

This Day and Forever Afterward by Ariel D

Chapter One
1669 D.R.
Artemis Entreri slipped from shadow to shadow, winding his way through dusty streets and crooked alleys that had changed dozens of times over 300 years, but never had they become unknown to him. The sun set upon Calimport, lowering the suffering city into darkness and creating black monoliths of the wooden docking sheds. The bustle of the day died into silence broken only by the wails of women crying over the bodies of husbands and children struck down by the Red Plague, the epidemic that had already killed thousands across Faerun.
The man who had long ago been an assassin set aside those thoughts for now, however, and allowed himself to feel the coolness of the billowing shadows, to feel their essence slipping like cold liquid silver through his veins. His numerous fights with the Netherese, which had often been won by his vampiric blade, had made him nearly one with the soul of the night, and he used his affinity to ease through the shed doorway and into a corner.
His would-be assassin stood boldly in the center of the shed, facing the door through which Artemis had just slipped. No human eye could detect the ex-assassin, he knew, since his role in fighting the return of the Netherese had left him almost half-shade. Artemis had time, then, to study the thin young man who meant to kill him. It was strange for Artemis to see in the child before him what he had once been: a young man, perhaps fifteen years in age, with the brown coloring and black hair of a Calishite. The boy continuously flexed his hands into a fist and then relaxed them, and his entire approach to the assassination was more like a duel. Such an amateur. Even after 300 years, Artemis remembered all the tricks of his one-time trade—sometimes he still had to use them.
From the opposite end of the room, a shimmer of movement caught Artemis's eye. Again, no normal human eye could detect it, but to the shade-infused human, the dark hole that formed in the wall was obvious, as was the drow who stepped through: Jarlaxle, co-leader of Bregan D'aerthe of the Underdark and ruler of Bregan T'rathe on the surface.
Artemis smiled to himself, for although he'd been expecting the drow's assistance, he hadn't been expecting the drow's newest outfit: modern and stylish, with its long golden coat and crimson waistcoat and breeches, the outfit was completed by black, shinny boots and a floppy crimson hat with a golden feather. Outrageous as always. It was a wonder the boy assassin didn't see the atrocity from the corner of his vision.
But before the boy did notice the drow, Artemis stepped into the light. "Why must I kill you?" he asked bluntly. He'd grown weary of the act of murder long ago, even when it was a common necessity. "What offense have I committed against you or your master that warrants my death?"
The boy jerked in shock at Artemis's sudden appearance, and the ex-assassin noticed how red and splotchy his complexion was. If the killer was that easily scared, he wasn't cut out for his occupation. Unless his complexion was a sign that he was infected with the Red Plague, in which case . . .
"My employer is one of the few Netherese that you and your allies didn't slaughter," the boy said, his voice clipped. "Azurthe Tyrune. Perhaps you recall the name?"
"Indeed I do." If Artemis had learned one thing during his unnaturally long life, it was that history never died. Actions great—or even small—could set events into motion that would echo throughout all time. The destruction of the Netherese Empire was one of them—but assassins sought him for more reasons than that. They targeted Artemis because of his connections with the government, because of his finesse in information gathering, and because of his position as pasha of a shipping guild. There was little in Calimport he didn't influence or own, and not everyone appreciated it.
The boy drew his falchion. "Then prepare to pay for your blasphemy." All around the assassin, blue screens formed, dimensional doorways that admitted a dozen further warriors.
"Hardly a fair fight," Artemis remarked dryly.
"All the world knows your reputation, and we also know the drow is always at your side," the boy replied without ever indicating he'd seen Jarlaxle's presence. "The two of you may be older than time, but to quote common wisdom, 'Only a fool underestimates Artemis Entreri and Jarlaxle Bregan.'"
Artemis bowed his head in acknowledgement and then drew Charon's Claw—the sword he'd carried all these centuries as a reminder of whom he'd been and never wanted to be again. Behind the soldiers, Jarlaxle drew a sapphire-tipped wand. It was a dance between Artemis and the drow, a waltz of magic and metal, perfected over the centuries until no enemy could hope to defeat them.
The boy assassin charged Artemis as though he had to kill him in one swing, slicing at him from all sides: a slash at each of Artemis's shoulders, followed by a slash at each of his knees, then a straight stab at his heart. Swordsmanship was something Artemis had never tired of—nor ever stopped needing—so he blocked each swipe with his red blade. He had retired the vampiric dagger, disgusted by its accumulated effect upon him and the utter destruction it brought, but he didn't need two blades to defeat this boy.
Even from across the room, Artemis saw Jarlaxle use his wand to unleash a small tornado of ice and snow upon four of their attackers, freezing them into scream-faced statues, while simultaneously drawing an emerald-tipped wand and spraying three others with acid. The acrid smell of burnt flesh and hair permeated the air, and the five remaining men circled the drow carefully.
Satisfied concerning his friend's safety, Artemis refocused upon the boy as he launched his second barrage, bringing his sword overhead and down in a death arc. Upon Artemis's block, the boy retracted his blade and swung at his shoulder again before snapping the blade low and then straight up in an attempt to gash through his groin. Artemis blocked all three strikes successfully, but took a small tear in his pants on the last parry.
"You're getting slow in your unnaturally old age," the boy snickered breathlessly.
"And you're ready to faint on your feet," Artemis replied, unconcerned with the boy's observation. He had long ago determined that he'd die on his feet, engaged in battle. The boy, though, looked ready to die without the benefit of a sword wound. Again, Artemis wondered if the boy were infected with the Plague.
The boy's only answer was to draw a dagger and charge Artemis once again, first with a feint before dropping into a spin with both his blades. Artemis snatched one of his nonmagical daggers from a thigh sheath and met the attack blade-by-blade. By far more experienced and effectual, despite being over 340 years old, Artemis knocked aside the boy's sword and looped his dagger hand over the boy's other arm, trapping his elbow before stabbing the dagger home. The boy gasped, then coughed violently and spat blood in Artemis's face. The ex-assassin wiped it away in disgust.
Across the room, Jarlaxle now had a collection of dagger-ridden corpses about his feet. Straightening himself slowly, the old drow rolled his shoulders back as though popping his vertebrae. He strolled over to Artemis, smiling all the way.
"Nothing like a good fight to remind me of our golden days," the drow said, winking.
"I told you not to joke like that," Artemis replied.
"We have never lost yet," Jarlaxle said, and although his movements were a touch stiff, his eyes sparkled.
"Well, I wasn't sure you'd come to my aid this time," Artemis quipped, unable to pass up a chance to goad the drow.
Jarlaxle immediately frowned. "And I thought I told you not to joke like that."
Artemis grinned and squeezed his shoulder before turning their attention toward the collection of corpses. "A small force for such a seemingly important act of vengeance."
The drow nodded. "Yes. I suspect a secondary motive or contingency plan." He pointed at the red splotches decorating the dying boy's face. "Do you think that perhaps . . .?"
The boy coughed again and opened his eyes a slit. "Not 'perhaps.' Definitely. My master and I have won. Artemis Entreri, I've infected you with the Red Death. You have about a tenday to live." He started to laugh, but choked and started coughing instead.
Jarlaxle stood motionless for a moment, then snapped a dagger straight into the boy's heart. "Bastard!"
A seeping coldness traced through Entreri's veins, and for a moment he was far away, mentally reliving other moments in time: his near death at Mirthal Hall almost 310 years earlier; his potential death at King Gareth's hands 300 years ago; his heart literally stopping during a battle in the Netherese Wars 250 years before; his bleeding out after being attacked by two chimera . . .
A half dozen moments out of a thousand where he'd nearly died, and most all of them during fights, with his sword in hand. Not in a sick bed.
When Artemis neither moved nor spoke, Jarlaxle grabbed him by both shoulders. "Artemis! You will survive. Artemis!" He shook him slightly. "Talk to me."
The ex-assassin looked at Jarlaxle, gazing directly into both his crimson eyes since he no longer wore an eye patch, and realized that in every near-death experience he'd recalled there had been one common denominator. Jarlaxle had always been there to help him, to save him. Whether he'd asked for help or not, wanted to be helped or not, Jarlaxle had been increasingly steadfast in staying by his side and saving his life.
"I know you will do your best," Artemis said. "But this is the Red Death."
Jarlaxle squeezed his shoulders—a sign of affection Artemis had finally grown used to and had even learned to return. "No. I will save you! I refuse to let you die this way."
But Artemis just stared at the corpse of the plague-ridden boy.

Chapter Two
Artemis tried to open his eyes, to force his groggy mind awake even if it meant more coughing spells. However, the dream he'd been having wouldn't release him—a dream with blurry images of a fight 300 years ago, of the day he'd killed the priest who had sired him, and of the day he'd thrown Jarlaxle out of his life, or rather had tried to. For a moment, he felt the anger of that moment and the frustration of the following months when Jarlaxle had repeatedly contacted him; however, the feelings were followed by a sense of loss that the events could not account for.
Artemis struggled in his sleep, trying once again to regain consciousness, but the dream merely shifted. Now he was in the Netherese Wars, which had occurred some fifty years later, and Jarlaxle was leaning down through the horizon of a dimensional portal, extending his hand to Artemis, who lay wounded on a cliff below:
"Just grab my hand," Jarlaxle yelled. "I can—"
"No!" Artemis called back. "You won't reach me in time, and then that portal will slice you in half!"
"I am not leaving you!"
I am not leaving you.
With the help of the words that had shocked him so much that long ago day, Artemis shook himself awake and gazed up at Jarlaxle, who had held his hand all afternoon—just as he had the day before—never loosening his grip. His crimson eyes had never left Artemis's face, even when he coughed up blood. The drow sat, the permanent fixture of his bed chamber, taking both meals and Reverie in that gold velvet wingback he'd brought just for the occasion. An extravagant gesture: so like him, so familiar. And to Artemis, so comforting—although he wouldn't admit it.
For the first three days, Jarlaxle had simply visited for an hour or two, cheerfully reporting on the attempts of his priests, doctors, and wizards to find an antidote. He'd walked about the room, throwing open windows and encouraging Artemis to have hope. "I have more resources than anyone in Toril," he'd said. "My people will find a cure!"
The following three days had become filled with bitter-smelling medicines like rotten lemons and Jarlaxle pacing the floor by his bed or repeatedly adjusting his coat or hat. "By the end of the day the clerics, at least, should have something," he'd said over and over. "The priests who created this plague cannot have constructed it so well that no other god could find a solution."
However, on the seventh day the wingback chair had appeared, and since then the drow had hovered at his side, as though he were afraid of leaving him.
"Jarlaxle," Artemis whispered. Between his illness, the rainy day, and the red brocade draperies drawn across the windows, he could barely see the drow, but his grip on his hand told him all he needed to know.
"Do not speak," Jarlaxle said immediately. A flash of white in the darkness told Artemis he'd smiled. "I expect you to be stubborn, but for my sake, try to follow the doctors' orders."
"You need to genuinely rest," he replied.
"Drow are more resilient," he quipped, humor and charm his defense, even now.
"You need a bath," Artemis rasped, returning his quip.
"I bathe while the nurses bathe you." He'd grown more serious and squeezed his hand.
"Are you sure?" Artemis said, trying to lighten the mood by teasing him again. Centuries ago, the drow's insufferable sense of humor had rubbed off on him, and Artemis hated to see him grim. At what point had he begun to care so? The moment had been lost in history. "I think you smell—" He choked before he could finish the sentence, setting off a dreaded coughing spell. He jerked up halfway in his four-poster, hacking as though he'd vomit.
Jarlaxle tried to press Artemis back down on the bed, handing him a white handkerchief to cough into. His stomach muscles ached from the endless spells, his throat ripped into a scorching burn. Bright red splotches appeared on the cloth, signaling the truth of his condition. Artemis gasped, a whistling in his throat, trying to get air past the coughing. Jarlaxle waited patiently, wiping his sweating brow with one of his more colorful handkerchiefs.
When the fit had passed, Artemis collapsed onto the mattress, overcome with exhaustion. "Please leave," he whispered for the hundredth time in the past tenday, his simple request betraying the thoughts behind the words. I don't want you infected, and I don't want you to see me this way.
The drow wiped Artemis's forehead once again, then rested his hand there briefly. "I have magical protection," he replied, obviously knowing his friend well enough to understand the man's unspoken concerns.
"Is it enough?" Artemis rasped. "You are ancient now." He gave him a small smile, then gestured with one finger at the brooch Jarlaxle wore at his neck—the brooch he'd stolen from the Archmage of Menzoberranzan when he'd died. "Magic alone keeps you handsome."
"Magic alone has made you look like a corpse for 300 years," Jarlaxle replied with an equally small smile. "But it's made you look like a young corpse and move like a thirty-year-old, and it will save your life now."
Artemis snorted. "Even after all the shades I had to fight and kill, I don't have enough of their life force to save me." He stopped, catching his breath. "The scholars finally do something worthwhile and discover the existence of germs, and—"
"—and then the priests of Velsharoon make a weapon of it," Jarlaxle finished for him. He took his hand again. "I feel certain that my wizards, priests, and doctors are close to a breakthrough on the antidote. Please, hang on."
Artemis exhaled heavily. Jarlaxle rarely spoke to him so openly, rarely showed him such affection. Always with him, it was riddles and jokes, extravagant plans and unnecessary risks. The drow's simple, honest plea told the man more about his condition than any doctor's prognosis or coughing spell. He was going to die, probably within the hour. However, because his dreams had reminded him of the past, there was one thing he wanted to say first.
"I kicked you out of my life once," Artemis began, his voice scratchy from all the coughing. "In Memnon all those years ago, I told you goodbye, to fare well or fare ill. At that moment you deserved it, but I wanted to say—"
Jarlaxle shook his head. "You kicked me out because I pushed too hard—or perhaps I should say I was too manipulative in my approach. It worked out for the best, though. Do not dredge it up now." He laid his free hand on his shoulder. "With some effort, we worked through it. That was for the best as well."
Artemis smiled faintly. He would have never dreamed that a drow—especially this drow—would have proven to be his friend. What an adventure it had been, he thought, their arriving at such a point. It was worth recording for the sake of history, if he cared about such things.
"Thank you," Artemis said suddenly, his own honest emotion scaring him. He had stood by Jarlaxle's side through a thousand assured deaths, but the mere thought of telling the drow that he cared for him terrified the man more than Shades, demons, and dragons combined.
Jarlaxle smiled again, that flash of white teeth so stark in his ebony face. How Artemis would miss that smile, those quirky clothes that changed in style but never in bad taste!
"You're welcome," Jarlaxle said, and Artemis knew he had understood his message. "But don't you dare die yet. My sources tell me that from the ashes of the Zhentarim is rising a mercenary guild worse than anything you saw in Menzoberranzan so long ago. I need you at my side; the world is changing yet again. Not to mention there are some priests we have to punish for your illness—for this entire Plague."
So many exploits, past and future, wrapped into a single sentence. Artemis tried to grin.
Jarlaxle leaned forward, squeezing his hand hard. "I finally found my freedom," he whispered harshly, his tone revealing that he found the words difficult. "I found it by your side. Don't you dare leave me now."
Artemis did smile then, appreciating the drow's bald honesty. "Neither of us possesses enough magic to live forever."
He saw it then—a telltale glimmer in the drow's eyes that vanished as soon as it appeared. "Don't live for forever. Live for tomorrow. I will see you through this."
Artemis nodded once. Trust and love were curious things, like faith and hope, and over the years he had learned to give himself to them. "You haven't failed me for many centuries." He relaxed into the mattress and let himself drift off to sleep.
Knowing a drow kept vigil over his bed.

Artemis Entreri sat on his veranda, watching a schooner set sail from the dock. Gazing at the early morning sun reflecting off the ocean and listening to the waves had become a pastime of his about fifty years earlier; they instilled a sense of peace in him. To be out on the veranda, breathing fresh air after spending two full tendays in bed, was enough of a blessing to last him a hundred lifetimes. He had thought he'd die in that sickroom, surrounded by bitter-smelling vials and hushed conversations between nurses and priests.
The veranda doors swung open, and Jarlaxle strolled out, his crimson hat sitting at an angle on his head. The drow held a tall glass filled with some fancy liquor concoction which smelled to Artemis like grapefruit juice and orange juice mixed with Firewine. That drow was ever experimenting with drinks, food, clothing, and who knew what else. He sat beside his friend on the wooden bench, took a sip of his drink, and smiled.
"I told you I would see you through it," he said, sharing a private grin that belonged to only them.
Artemis snorted. "Arrogant drow."
"Stubborn human."
Artemis shook his head, starting to speak of the rare but heartfelt words Jarlaxle had uttered during his illness, but he found himself unable to verbalize the bond that had cemented their friendship. Quickly shifting topics, he began instead to mention the business of distributing the new-found cure to the Red Plague. However, he realized that sometimes Jarlaxle didn't come to do business, didn't want to chatter—that sometimes, Jarlaxle merely wanted to be with his one and only trusted abbil. So Artemis simply smiled.
The friends relaxed, shoulder-to-shoulder, and watched the sun rise. Even though they'd lived beyond their time, there would be time still, adventures still. Time enough and adventures enough to die on their feet, swords in hand.
They wouldn't have it any other way.

@темы: Entreri, Jarlaxle, в запас

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And On...

Продолжение предыдущего рассказа...

When Tomorrow Becomes Yesterday by Ariel D

Chapter One
He had visited once a month, every month, for a year. Entreri had watched him, this charming drow with the wide white smile and graceful hands. He had scrutinized the uncovered red eye that glittered with mirth and even the arrangement of the rainbow-colored cape folded over his shoulder. Entreri had expressed disinterest, yawned through stories of the drow's adventures with Athrogate, and finally done a surveillance job for them. Yet he had remained emotionally distant, wary of the mental prison the drow could create through the manipulation of words and magic.
Still Jarlaxle came, and this time he was a tenday early.
A crack like thunder shook Entreri's Copper Ante office, knocking over his ink well and jarring coffee out of his cup. Slayer, the pit bull Jarlaxle had given Entreri earlier that year, jumped to her feet and growled. Orange smoke filled the room, obscuring the mahogany furniture and richly woven rugs, and then Entreri heard a heavy thud. Suspecting the culprit, he stood and waited for the haze to dissipate, wondering at the clumsy entrance. Why hadn't Jarlaxle had Kimmuriel open a psionic door for him?
Entreri didn't expect the answer he found.
When the smoke cleared, Entreri saw Jarlaxle lying on his side in the floor and clutching his left leg. A gaping wound ran from his hip to his knee, pouring blood. Blood also gushed from a gash on his temple, and a crimson burn raced up his left arm.
"By all the gods!" Entreri said, reacting to the emergency before he remembered he wasn't supposed to care. He rushed to his liquor cabinet, which held mostly potions and poisons, and opened the doors. For a moment he paused, unsure he should help the brutally manipulative drow and thinking that at the least he should make demands first. He glanced back at Jarlaxle, who had curled into the fetal position, and felt a stab of worry he didn't understand. Resolved to help the drow, he turned back, grabbed a healing potion, and brought it to him.
"By all rights I should let you die," Entreri snapped as he rolled Jarlaxle onto his back. He lifted the drow upon his lap and supported his head. "Healing potion," he said, curtly. He felt irritated suddenly—put upon and even a touch unguarded. Those were not feelings he welcomed.
Jarlaxle said nothing and began sipping. It took five minutes to get the potion down his throat given his laborious breathing and pain convulsions. Finally, though, Jarlaxle collapsed against his lap with a deep sigh and closed his eyes. Entreri watched the gashes begin to pull inward as though unseen hands stitched the flesh and tendons together. The redness began fading from the burn as the drow's skin evened out.
"Thank you," Jarlaxle whispered, his eyes still closed.
Offering no response, Entreri simply stared at the smooth ebony forehead and gracefully arched white eyebrows of his ex-associate. Long white eyelashes fringed his closed eyes and played contrast to his black cheeks. His nose was narrow with an elegant dip that suggested noble blood, and the net effect caused Jarlaxle to look like a porcelain doll.
Entreri shoved away the thoughts. The drow wasn't delicate or vulnerable; it was an illusion created by the fine, small bones of elves. In truth, Jarlaxle was one of the most dangerous mercenaries alive.
Slayer came to her master's side, sniffed the drow, and whined.
"I know," Entreri replied, having picked up the human habit of conversing with his guard dog. He glanced at her and assumed his command voice. "Slayer! Dwavhel!"
Slayer's ears perked, and she barked once before running out of the room. It had taken Entreri an entire tenday to train the dog to fetch Dwahvel, but he and the guild-mistress had agreed that Slayer could be invaluable in an emergency.
Jarlaxle opened his eyes, both of which were uncovered, at the sound of Entreri's command. He sifted slightly, then gazed at the ex-assassin. "What shall you do with me now, my friend?"
Entreri bit back the urge to say "We were never friends" and returned the slender drow's gaze. Despite his admonishments to himself, the thoughts returned: covered in blood and torn clothing, Jarlaxle seemed fragile, as though he could be easily hurt and killed—not the confident demigod of endless convenient tricks.
Jarlaxle waited patiently for his answer, and Entreri noted that his pupils were dilated. "Get you a room," he finally answered, his tone brusque. "I'll interrogate you later."
Jarlaxle smiled, and Entreri saw blood on his teeth.
Entreri heard approaching footsteps, and then he saw Dwahvel round the corner into the office, Slayer at her side. "Artemis? What is it?" Then her gaze fell upon the drow. "Oh . . ."
"He'll need a room," Entreri said. "And another healing potion."
Dwahvel seemed to collect herself, then nodded. "I'll have to house him in the officer's quarters. We still have an empty room. And you'll have to carry him upstairs."
Entreri immediately envisioned carrying Jarlaxle piggy-back style, but he realized it would aggravate the still-raw leg wound. Slung over his shoulder? No, the blood on Jarlaxle's teeth might be evidence of internal injuries. He sighed and looked down at the drow. "I'll have to carry you like a woman."
Entreri could see the question mark forming in Jarlaxle's mind, but he didn't explain. He extracted himself from under the drow's torso and then gathered him in his arms, careful to grasp his knees below the injury. Then he stood, lifting the drow with the power of his legs. Jarlaxle grasped his shoulders and grinned with genuine amusement.
"Oh, I see," he said. "In drow culture, this is how females carry males or other females to bed."
Entreri considered the fact that the average drow female was taller and larger than the average male and decided it made sense. To a certain degree, drow culture was the exact opposite of Calishite culture. "Very well. I'll carry you like a male drow."
Jarlaxle laughed, but the sound was faint and wispy, telling Entreri he was still injured.
"Let's go," the ex-assassin told Dwahvel, and she nodded and led them up three flights of stairs, past the Halfling brothel on the second floor and to the guild quarters on the third. The officer's quarters—including Dwahvel's and Entreri's—were in the right wing of the roughly U-shaped building and overlooked the center courtyard. Jarlaxle was given the room of a recently-killed officer whose girth had been so extensive he'd used a human-sized bed.
Dwahvel turned down the bed covers and went to call for water, bandages, and potions. Entreri laid Jarlaxle in bed and shook away the thought of how slender and light-weight he'd been. It made him seem too . . . human. Too real.
"Thank you," Jarlaxle said. "I must say, I've never been carried like that before, so it was an interesting experience." His smile was coy.
Entreri raised an eyebrow. "A female has not carried you to bed?"
Jarlaxle scrunched his nose in distaste. "I would not dare trust one to. In past time, I had some who wanted to, but I always distracted them from their plan." He winked.
But you trusted me? Entreri thought. He sat on Jarlaxle's left side, and when the water bowl and cloth arrived, he bathed the wounds himself so he could assess the remaining damage.
"This hasn't completely healed," Entreri said, wiping the blood from Jarlaxle's leg. "In addition to another healing potion, you'll need a few days' rest."
Jarlaxle had propped himself up on the pillows and was watching Entreri closely. At the ex-assassin's diagnosis, he sighed dramatically. "I suspected as much." He felt of his cheek and grimaced. "I also seem to have bitten through part of my inner cheek."
Entreri turned his attention to the drow's face and wiped the blood from his left temple. Jarlaxle accepted the treatment quietly, although he shivered when Entreri applied the cold cloth to his neck.
"What madness did you sink yourself into this time?" Entreri finally asked as he cleaned the last of the blood and inspected the drow's head wound.
Jarlaxle smiled finally. "Well, Athrogate involved himself in a dwarven war and left me alone to face a rather incensed pair of Harpers—one of which turned out to be a gold dragon."
Entreri stopped inspecting the head wound and stared incredulously at the drow. "And you didn't arrive as a corpse? I wonder that your magic tricks and luck held out." He paused and frowned. "If you bring the Harpers down upon the Copper Ante . . ."
Jarlaxle held up his hands and shook his head. "No, no. They stopped me from gaining the piece I meant to acquire. They have no reason to give chase. I just needed a safe location to teleport to."
Entreri smirked. "And what made you think I wouldn't let you bleed out? You have hardly been a blessing to me."
"Better to bleed out than to spend your final moments being shredded by a dragon."
"Fine." Entreri couldn't argue that, but a wave of anger washed over him. "Rest here while I'm still in a decent mood. Your healing potion should arrive shortly."
The ex-assassin abruptly set down the washrag and stood, leaving Jarlaxle without further comment. As he headed downstairs to his office, he felt inexplicably irritated about the drow's assumptions . . . even if they were true. Was Jarlaxle going to use this opportunity to worm his way back into his life?
Entreri decided he wouldn't let him.

Jarlaxle relocated to the wingback chair Dwahvel had provided for him and gazed out the window at the courtyard. A copper statue of Brandobaris, the Halfling god of rogues, stood with arms outstretched amidst swirled designs of obsidian stones and raked sand. Charming, really, for such a harsh climate. This was Jarlaxle's second morning spent at the Copper Ante, and the drow felt a touch stir-crazy.
Dwahvel had visited him three times and had impressed him with her keen mind and sharp wit. He could see why Entreri liked her. Artemis, however, had only visited once around noon the previous day, and he'd been as sour as usual. At least I am being well-fed and given good medical care, Jarlaxle thought. In another day, I will be able to walk again, even if I am not completely recovered.
The problem, though, was the human. During his first night of recovery, Jarlaxle decided to turn this unfortunate circumstance into profit by re-securing Entreri as a partner. He had never wanted to lose his friendship in the first place—he had meant to work with the human until he retired or got himself killed, whichever came first. But he'd overplayed his hand in his efforts to open Entreri's heart, and he still felt pangs of remorse when he remembered how badly Entreri had been hurt.
Still, Jarlaxle had given him a year to regain his equilibrium, and Entreri persisted in freezing him out. What strategy could the drow use to win back his friend?
The door opened, admitting a surly ex-assassin. "I see you're still breathing."
Jarlaxle smiled. "Indeed. I should be back to my normal self soon."
"May the gods preserve us."
"Not at all. I add interest and flair to the world."
Entreri snorted. "Not in the way you think, but at least you're lining our pockets with gold for your room and board."
A knock sounded at the door, and a Halfling servant entered carrying a breakfast tray filled with croissants, danishes, fruit, cheese, juice, and coffee. He set them on the table by Jarlaxle and retreated.
"Halflings do know how to serve good food," the drow murmured, picking up a cheese danish.
Entreri looked like his stomach had turned. He poured himself a cup of coffee and took it black.
Jarlaxle shook his head. "Still denying yourself the pleasures of life, I see."
Enteri sighed and set down his cup. "If you can nag me over my lifestyle, then you're already fully healed."
Testy and blunt, Jarlaxle thought. "I am not nagging you. I have always wanted you to learn to enjoy your life!"
"Enjoying life does not include being mentally raped by magical flutes." Entreri picked up his cup again and sipped his coffee, but his true anger showed in the way his jaw flexed.
How to get past the ice? Jarlaxle set down his danish. "I did not know it would cause such damage. Yet, in spite of everything, I do believe you are happier for having faced your demons."
"Perhaps. But it wasn't your decision to make, especially since you couldn't predict the amount of damage I would incur." Entreri's expression was perfectly stoic.
Jarlaxle held in a sigh. Nicely parried. "I wasn't aware any damage would occur at all. As I told you before, friends help even when not asked."
Entreri slammed down his cup. "I never asked for any friends either. When I wanted a friend, I chose to return to her on my own." He stood. "Do rest today. I want you out of here by dawn tomorrow."
Jarlaxle watched Entreri stalk out and found he'd lost his appetite. "Our first real conversation in a year," he muttered to himself, "and you lose your temper."
Words were empty and cheap, Jarlaxle knew. He would have to demonstrate his true intentions through actions.

Entreri paced down the length of Dwahvel's office floor, turned on his heel, and then paced back up.
"His presence disturbs you," Dwahvel noted dryly.
Entreri halted and stared at her. "I do and don't believe him. He is and isn't lying."
The Halfling cocked one graceful eyebrow.
Entreri fell into his chair—the human-sized one Dwahvel had bought for him—and sighed. "In his own twisted way he was trying to work toward our mutual benefit, I suppose. But—"
"But his motivations are always mixed?" Dwahvel smiled. "So are ours."
Entreri smirked. "Exactly. I wouldn't trust me, and I certainly don't trust him."
"He sees the world in terms of a master plan. He sees organizations, super structures, and macro businesses," Dwahvel said. "When he looks at you, he sees your whole life—past, present, and future. When he first met you, he saw your potential and everything you could be in addition to what you had already achieved. Those with personalities like his show care by helping people to achieve their full potential. Mercenaries like him add mutual profit to the scenario: what you could both gain if your potential was maximized."
Entreri rubbed his fingers under his chin, feeling the fine stubble that had already grown on his face since early morning. Dwahvel's words made sense, and she would know best since she had a certain element of that personality herself. "But I don't need help."
"You don't want help," Dwahvel corrected. "But that is not all that is there. The longer Jarlaxle lives in human society, the more he will adapt. Humans with his personality also become quite protective."
Entreri considered the way Jarlaxle had left him alone to face the dracolich and snorted. "He would have to stay on the surface another century to come close."
Dwahvel chuckled. "I trust your judgment, of course. But if it helps any, I believe he genuinely cares for you."
Entreri wasn't sure how to feel about that. Jarlaxle, care about him? In a human sense?
An urgent knock on the door interrupted their conversation.
"Come," Dwahvel called.
One of their top spies, Frudel, entered and bowed. Today the tiny blonde Halfling was disguised as a child, but her professional persona shined through her outfit. "Urgent information, mistress," she said.
Dwahvel nodded. "Report."
Frudel folded her hands behind her back. "I have verified that the Basadoni Guild is indeed plotting to assassinate Master Entreri."
"Fools," Dwahvel said, clenching her fists. She thumped one on her chair-arm. "How can they be so dense?"
Entreri frowned. He and Dwahvel had played a careful balancing act for the past year to keep peace with the guilds. Entreri had kept his activities minimal for the first six months by taking lower profile spy missions, but lately he had branched out to take high-stakes jobs. Apparently the restructured Basadoni Guild felt threatened.
"The new pasha, I assume," Entreri said.
Frudel nodded. "Pasha Jasal has become convinced that you're rebuilding your networks and influence in order to resume command of the Basadoni Guild. He's deployed his top three assassins in a contest to be rid of you."
Entreri flexed both hands and smiled an evil grin. His pulse immediately accelerated at the thought of a challenge. While spy work left his soul more at rest and provided a mental workout, he had missed the pure adrenaline and fire of sword-fighting. What few battles he'd faced had been dreadfully easy. "Let them come."
Dwahvel slanted a look of half-irritation and half-fondness at him, then returned her gaze to Frudel. "Who did Jasal deploy?"
"Omero, Hari, and Jasal's son, Jaknel."
Entreri cursed. Omero he'd expected. Even Hari, who would prove difficult since she was the current top assassin in Calimport. But Jaknel? "He's sending his eldest son?"
"With the Basadonis having regained their former power, you were already in danger," Dwahvel reminded him.
"But Jasal worships his son. If I kill the brat—"
"You'll be unable to set foot in Calimport until Jasal dies," Dwahvel finished. "Especially with the Rakers making overtures of an alliance with him. He would never rest until his son was avenged, and if he adds the Rakers' power to his own, he'll be unstoppable."
Entreri smirked. So, he was in yet another dangerous situation with no foreseeable outlets: familiar, challenging, and annoying at all once. He would survive as always, but perhaps not without a loss of some kind. With that thought, he put his hands on the pommels of his weapons—Charon's Claw and the vampiric dagger. He was in need of their services once again.

Chapter Two
Jarlaxle knocked on the thick oak door and awaited a response. Since he felt well enough to walk around after supper, he had decided to visit Entreri's office and speak with the paranoid man. Although he expected to be rebuffed again, he had to try once more before leaving the Copper Ante.
An extended pause followed Jarlaxle's knock, then finally Entreri opened the door and allowed him to enter. "I have little time for idle chatter," he said, gesturing for Jarlaxle to take a chair.
Jarlaxle sank gratefully into the wingback; his leg was beginning to burn. "Is there trouble afoot?"
Entreri scowled at the drow, then walked to his liquor cabinet, where he removed several small vials and potions and began storing them in his belt pack. "Of course." He hesitated, then continued. "The new Pasha of Basadoni has ordered a hit on me. His three top assassins are competing to eliminate me."
Jarlaxle frowned. "Dangerous for you and also bad business for them. You are allied with a neutral guild, so their plan will backfire politically."
Entreri shrugged and sat behind his desk. "But the return of Artemis Entreri to Calimport was marked with unease."
Jarlaxle dipped his head respectfully. "Of course." He watched his friend carefully, seeing his golden opportunity to re-secure Entreri's trust. "What do you know about these assassins?"
Entreri gazed at the drow a moment, then leaned back in his chair. "The first is Hari, Pasha Jasal's top assassin and current top dog of the city. I've met her only once, but I can tell you she is not to be underestimated." He propped his elbows on the chair arms and interlaced his fingers over his stomach. Jarlaxle smiled to himself, enchanted as always by Entreri's confidence and air of command; the ex-assassin was on guard but not panicked.
"The second is Omero, Jasal's second lieutenant," Entreri had continued. "He is infamous for his poisoned daggers and exceptional stealth. The final is Jaknel, who is Jasal's heir. He's the upcoming new star of the guild."
Jarlaxle nodded. "Threat level?" Although the drow had faith in his friend, he also knew the man was in his mid-forties now. Age was not on his side—unless the Shade life-force could sufficiently compensate.
"High," Entreri replied bluntly. "Both physically and politically. Jasal does not consider his son a threat like a Matron Mother would consider a daughter. Jaknel is his pride and joy, his legacy and his future."
Jarlaxle grimaced and felt genuine concern for his friend's safety. His instincts had been correct—this was his first real chance, and probably last chance, to prove his motives were mostly based on feelings of kinship and not pure greed. "Very well. I will stay with you until this danger is past."
Entreri narrowed his eyes. "I didn't ask for help."
"No, you didn't." Jarlaxle smiled. "But I am offering."
Before Entreri could respond, a figure dropped down from the vaulted ceiling and landed on the desk. The two mercenaries toppled over their chairs in their haste to stand. Entreri drew his weapons and blocked in an X-formation to stop the downward swing of the assassin's sword. Jarlaxle, though, had been forced to duck and roll to avoid the flight of two small daggers.
Omero, Jarlaxle deduced, quickly assessing the weaponry of this stocky Calishite dressed in solid black. He readied his own magical bracers in preparation for stabbing the assassin in the back, but Omero kicked the oil lamp off Entreri's desk and into Jarlaxle's chest before vaulting to the floor.
Jarlaxle tried to catch the lamp in order to avoid disaster, but he didn't have time. The lamp knocked against his arm and fell to the floor, splattering oil on the rug. The flame ignited the oil immediately, catching the rug on fire.
Reaching inside his cloak, Jarlaxle pulled out a wand that would spray forth ice and snow, but he immediately realized the blast radius would catch Entreri as well. Keeping the wand securely in hand, he jumped backwards toward the door. "Hurry!"
As though reacting to the plea, Entreri cornered Omero against the far wall and delivered a fatal blow to Omero's gut. With a shout of pain, Omero clutched his abdomen and slumped to the floor. Without pause, Entreri whirled and jumped upon the desk, then leapt over the growing flames. As soon as he cleared, Jarlaxle iced down the room, finishing off Omero in the process.
Entreri opened the door, and the two fled, coughing from the smoke, into the hallway. They leaned side-by-side against the far wall and took deep breaths.
"I suppose you occasionally have your uses," Entreri said, smirking.
Jarlaxle grinned. "That's a start."

Entreri watched the drow preen before the mirror. The sight was so familiar that it tempted him to grin for a reason he didn't understand. Jarlaxle turned right first, sizing up his profile. He positioned his red eye patch over his right eye and tilted the corner of his hat up on the left. He smiled at himself and then turned left, repositioning the hat and eye patch as he did. With a second smile he faced forward and ran his hands over his leather vest, bare muscled abdomen, and the top of his new leather pants.
"You look dazzling as usual," Entreri said with a smirk. "You can stop inspecting yourself."
Jarlaxle faced him and tipped his hat. "Thank you, my friend."
Entreri once again bit back the urge to tell Jarlaxle not to call him "friend," but he found he felt slightly less irritated about it. "For the tenth time, you don't need to do this," he said. "I told you I don't need help, and in any case, I'm not sure you're healed enough to attempt it."
Jarlaxle lifted one long, slender finger and wagged it. "Now, now. I already said I would help you."
Entreri signed and gave up. After the attack the previous night, Entreri had decided to draw his attackers into the open. Jarlaxle had insisted on shadowing him and assisting, and now that night had fallen, the two mercenaries were preparing to head into the streets.
Jarlaxle pushed his rainbow-colored cape over his shoulder and gestured with one ring-laden hand toward the door of his room. "Shall we proceed?"
Entreri knew he was doomed to suffer the drow's interference, so he simply led the way up to the Copper Ante's roof. He was determined that Dwahvel and her guild would not be destroyed by Pasha Jasal's machinations, so he leapt from roof to roof in order to draw the assassins out into the city. He hid himself well enough to feign stealth but not so well that he couldn't be detected and tracked. Jarlaxle followed at a safe distance, completely hidden in the darkness.
After a half hour's stake out on an inn roof, Entreri perceived the movements of his new opponent. Two guild soldiers—disguised but obvious from their furtive glances—entered the alley opposite him. Entreri suspected that this meant Jaknel stalked him; Hari would be too professional and prideful to make use of common soldiers.
Entreri briefly wondered if he could take down Jaknel without killing him; Jasal's anger over the boy's death was sure to cause a political disaster for Entreri. However, the ex-assassin knew that sparing Jaknel really wasn't an option—the only way to stop an assassin was to kill him. It was a matter of pride.
Entreri descended into the nearest alley and prepared to condemn himself to another several years' banishment from Calimport.
Apparently taking the bait, Jaknel stepped into the alleyway behind him, no doubt preparing to sneak up and stab him in the back. Entreri drew his weapons and turned to face the young man.
Jaknel, who appeared to be in his late teens, had the same coal black hair and dark grey eyes as Entreri had. The boy drew up short, raising his sword and dagger before him, and Entreri was struck with the feeling he was facing a younger version of himself. Same lean build, same confident posture, with his shoulders pulled back and his chin up. Jaknel's eyes did not have the cold sheen that Entreri knew his possessed, though; the boy did not hide his emotions well.
"The legendary Artemis Entreri," Jaknel said, smirking. "If you weren't such a fossil, I'd say I was honored to fight you."
Entreri kept his expression utterly stony. Overconfident, he thought.
"What? No reply?" Jaknel twirled his dagger once, then snapped his wrist as though he would throw.
"You talk too much," Entreri said, charging him. He feinted a strike at Jaken's knee, pulling back as the boy moved to block and slashing toward his neck instead. Jaknel tried to duck and leap to the side all at once but tripped and fell instead. As Entreri angled his sword for the kill, a flash in the corner of his vision alerted him to danger. He jumped backwards and brought up his sword in a block, expecting to see one or both of the guild soldiers.
Instead, he found himself locking gazes with a slim, leather-clad woman he'd only met once before: Hari. She lunged with both of her swords, which Entreri rushed to block.
"I'm surprised you would lower yourself to work with Jaknel," Entreri said, pushing his blades against hers.
Hari's white teeth shown as she smiled. "Unlike the others, I do not underestimate you."
Entreri didn't respond. Two young professional assassins against one older ex-assassin. If Jarlaxle was ever going to help him, it needed to be now.

Jarlaxle had descended from the rooftops and disabled the two soldiers who had been accompanying the young man he suspected was Jaknel. Entreri need not be ambushed from behind as he dispatched the assassin. When he turned and glanced across the street, however, Jarlaxle didn't see what he expected. Instead of finding Entreri standing over a corpse, Jarlaxle saw him trying to fend off both Jaknel and a tall brunette woman who had to be Hari.
"Blast!" he cursed, sprinting toward the fray. His leg still ached from his previous wound and shot spikes of pain down to his ankle and up his side, but he ignored it. He approached Hari from behind, dropping two daggers from his bracers and hoping to kill her before she knew she was under attack. But by some means—magical or otherwise—she sensed the danger before he struck, and jumped to the side, leaving the daggers to hit the wall harmlessly.
Immediately, Hari charged him, and Jarlaxle lost ground just trying to ready his swords. He managed to raise his blades in time to parry her first attack, but he quickly realized that this assassin handled her two scimitars like a drow. She blocked Jarlaxle's strikes and pressed forward, trying to corner him in the alley, and his throbbing leg slowed him. All the running had aggravated the wound, causing him to limp—and sloppy foot work could get him killed.
"I expected more from a drow," Hari taunted, "even one reportedly skulking around Calimport on and off for the past year. Where is that great prowess that is so legendary?"
Jarlaxle didn't bother to answer. He parried her high strikes and ducked under her blades, spinning behind her. He had the advantage, but his left leg tried to give out, causing him to stumble. Hari was already whirling around, pulling her blades close. In that instance, Jarlaxle saw his death—she would drive her sword straight into his side. He would have proved himself to Entreri, but only by dying. That would achieve nothing.
Desperate, Jarlaxle scrambled to correct his stance and struck out with his right-hand blade; Hari slashed with her left-hand sword as she turned. Jarlaxle's blade pierced her right side, biting into her kidney and intestines, but her sword also connected and sliced through his left thigh.
They both collapsed to the ground, each gushing blood from the wounds.

Entreri slung the blood from his sword and dagger and sheathed them, then glanced at Jaknel's corpse. The boy's grey eyes stared blankly at the night sky, the same vacant gaze Entreri had seen hundreds of times in his life. Yet this time, he felt a moment's pity for the boy and his father—for a life uselessly wasted and a parent's grief. Still, the moment passed quickly, leaving Entreri to curse them as fools and to ponder his fate. Even after losing his top three assassins, Pasha Jasal would move all the nine hells to avenge his eldest son and heir. Entreri would have to flee—again.
With a sigh, Entreri turned toward Jarlaxle, expecting him to be leaning against the wall with a body at his feet. Instead he saw Jarlaxle once again collapsed on his side in the fetal position, his left leg gushing blood. Beside him was Hari's corpse, lying face up in a pool of blood.
"Jarlaxle!" Entreri ran to the drow's side and began inspecting the wound.
Jarlaxle chuckled, but it sounded more like a cough of pain. "Apparently I wasn't healed enough . . . to fight."
"Fool," Entreri spat, ripping strips off his cloak to use for bandages. "Not only have you killed yourself, your recklessness has now caused me to ruin my best cloak." His words were mostly bravado, however. The wound was so deep he could see bone. He quickly bound the leg, tying the bandages tight to stem the bleeding. Jarlaxle had begun panting with pain.
"Hold on," Entreri said, worried. Why had Jarlaxle insisted on accompanying him if he wasn't healed enough? He had severely jeopardized his life by engaging Hari in such a condition! Had he miscalculated? Impossible . . .
With the bandages finished, Entreri fished a small vial of healing potion from his belt pack; it was all he carried. Once Jarlaxle drank it, Entreri would have to rush him back to the Copper Ante for real treatment.
Repeating his actions of three days earlier, Entreri pulled Jarlaxle's upper body into his lap and supported his head. "Healing potion," he said, sounding kinder this time in spite of himself. Jarlaxle choked down the liquid and then collapsed against Entreri's chest. The ex-assassin held him still, giving him a chance to bring his breathing under control.
"What a pain you are," Entreri said as he found himself staring at the drow's delicate face again. To put himself at such risk, the drow obviously wanted him as a partner once more. But why was the drow going to such effort? It wasn't as though the drow could trick him into forgiving him overnight.
Dwahvel's words returned to him: Humans with his personality also become quite protective.
"Protective?" Entreri muttered, bemused. Was it possible that the drow was developing a streak of genuine caring? He stopped to reconsider Jarlaxle's behavior at King Gareth's palace. The drow had returned to rescue him despite the fact Entreri had rejected him at the psionic door. He had rescued him with nothing to gain and everything to lose, since Gareth had mobilized against them. Entreri had meant to be rid of Jarlaxle forever and had resented the unasked-for rescue, but the truth remained that the only possible motivation Jarlaxle could have had for saving him was . . .
"Friendship," Entreri said aloud, stunned. How had the drow come to feel such apparent kinship for him? He would have to weasel the information out of Jarlaxle at some point if they were to remain in contact.
With a frown, Entreri put his hand on Jarlaxle's forehead to check his temperature and make sure he wasn't growing cold with shock. The drow opened his uncovered eye and smiled at the touch. He seemed dazed. "What?"
Entreri didn't dare repeat the revelation; trust still needed to be rebuilt—or perhaps built for the first time. One act of self-sacrifice wasn't enough to wipe out years of manipulation and one decisive betrayal over the dracolich, but it was a first step. An impressive first step. "I need to get you back to the guild."
Jarlaxle nodded his head slightly.
"I have to carry you again," Entreri continued. It was going to look strange, especially considering he would have to employ the "female" style once more, but he would stick to the shadows.
"I understand."
Entreri supported the drow's weight as he repositioned him, then he gathered him into his arms and stood, careful to avoid the leg wound.
The bleary-eyed Jarlaxle wrapped his arm around Entreri's neck and thumped his head against his shoulder. "Why my leg?" he muttered. "It's always my leg."
Entreri smirked, remembering that early in their acquaintance Jarlaxle had broken his leg. "Because you live life on the edge of disaster."
The drow just chuckled.

Jarlaxle propped himself up on pillows and smiled at Entreri as he entered the room. He had never had anyone react with such concern when he was injured—not once in his life. Entreri's words had been harsh and sarcastic as usual, but the drow had seen the genuine care beneath them. Now the wave of warmth Jarlaxle felt in response to that concern overwhelmed him, and he didn't know what to do with the emotion.
Entreri sat on the edge of his bed and didn't smile back, but his eyes were less cold. "How are you?"
Jarlaxle had to release his feelings somehow, so he beamed at his friend and punched Entreri's arm. "Well enough to face a dragon by the end of the tenday."
The ex-assassin snorted. "Dragons. Why must it always be dragons with you?"
Jarlaxle couldn't stop grinning, and Entreri seemed to sense his unusual mood because he reached out and squeezed his forearm briefly.
"I'll have to leave tonight," Entreri said, growing solemn. "Pasha Jasal reacted to his son's death just as I predicted. The price on my head is so high every bounty hunter and assassin in Calimshan, Amn, and Tethyr will be after me. I'm heading for Waterdeep as soon as night falls."
Jarlaxle frowned. "I'm going with you."
"You're still too injured, and I didn't ask for your help."
Jarlaxle felt such a strong desire to win the argument that he nearly climbed out of bed. Entreri grasped his shoulders to stop him, but Jarlaxle intercepted the move by grabbing his forearms. "Don't be stubborn, Artemis. I'm well enough to ride, and as your friend I can offer help at any time—and should!"
Entreri glared at him, but after a moment, Jarlaxle realized the anger wasn't too deep. "Meddling fool," the ex-assassin growled.
Jarlaxle gave him a small smile, hoping to thaw him out.
This time Entreri returned the smile with a smirk. "I wouldn't have told you my intentions if I were going to refuse your offer."
Jarlaxle blinked, realizing he'd been had, and then grinned. "Bastard."
Entreri snickered, then gave Jarlaxle a pointed stare. "Just make sure you offer your help, not force it on me, and that you offer it openly. If you respect me, I won't have to tell you to go to hell again—or kill you."
Jarlaxle nodded, accepting the fair warning for what it was. "And if you refrain from double-crossing me, I won't have to kill you."
Entreri snorted, no doubt having expected the mutual bravado and boundary declarations, and Jarlaxle grinned in return. They were both well aware that their peace treaty was tentative and that trust would have to be regained on both sides, but despite this, Jarlaxle felt confident that their partnership would hold. If Jarlaxle had any say in the matter, this time their kinship would count for something more lasting and permanent.
"I'll have a horse prepared for you," Entreri said. "Do have your preening complete by the time I return." He stood, paused, and then slapped Jarlaxle on the shoulder before he left.
Jarlaxle's smile didn't fade even after the door closed. He hadn't felt so happy since his and Entreri's first escape from Calimport. After all, he'd accomplished his goal—he had reclaimed his traveling and business partner.
And, perhaps, his friend.

TBC

@темы: Entreri, Jarlaxle, в запас

---

On and On

The Day After by Ariel D

Chapter One: The Day After the World Ended
Dwahvel Tiggerwillies knew he was coming long before he arrived—her spy network was the best in Calimport. She had not thought to ever see him again, however, and was disturbed by what it must mean. Artemis Entreri returning to Calimport? And only within a few years after the debacle he and the drow had left behind them? Tragedy must have struck, and hard.
The lean brunette Halfling wandered into the main room of The Copper Ante and glanced across the bar and gambling tables. The mostly Halfling crowd was busy enjoying itself—pints of ales and plates of food crowded the bar, and dice rolled to shouts of joy and dismay. Songs burst from the corner as a particularly drunken group celebrated a birthday, for even in the underbelly of Calimport, the Halfling spirit could not be broken.
The door swung open then, admitting a swirl of dust and the roar of the street, and a single human man stepped inside. Entreri's physical condition told her much: his clothing was covered in sand and dust, the bridge of his nose sun burnt, his cheeks unshaven, and his hair tousled. In short, he looked much the same as he had years earlier when he'd returned to Calimport a lost and confused man—a man who had lost his heart.
But it was his eyes that told her everything. He spotted her immediately from across the busy room and locked gazes with her, and she saw his pain, his emptiness, and a lingering anger, as though someone had detonated a magical missile inside his soul. He strode toward her in bold steps, his posture forever that of a warrior, and many eyes discreetly followed his progress. He didn't seem to notice or care.
When he reached her side, Dwahvel said the only thing she could, for all the words had been blasted from her mind at the sight of his pain. "Oh, my friend . . ."

Entreri sat across from her on a pile of silken pillows, slowly sipping a honeymead ale. His presence in her antechamber reminded Dwahvel of happier times, and she wanted to rejoice in his return, for she had keenly missed him. She had never forgotten their talks or the way he had protected her from Sharlotta. But she couldn't find pleasure in the face of his turmoil, nor could she ask him what had happened. He would talk when he was ready, and not before. Still . . .
"Entreri? How may I be of assistance to you?" she asked quietly.
His gaze, which had been resting idly on the rim of his glass, snapped toward her in anger. "Artemis Entreri is dead. Call me Artemis."
She nodded, and the man continued unbidden.
"I am not him," he said, his voice hard. "I am no longer an assassin, no longer a thief. Since I know you are curious, I will tell you: I have not returned to carve out my niche again. I will not work myself into the favor or employment of any guild; I will not pander to them, take their tests, or play their games. I am my own man. Nothing more, nothing less."
Dwahvel watched him, scrutinized the set of his shoulders, the tilt of his head, and realized he told the truth. Artemis Entreri had died, and this new man was in possession of himself: his past and his present, the hidden and the visible. Somehow, someway, he had looked fully into the mirror of his soul, faced everything it showed him, and was now going to change the course of his life. But what would that course be? Who would this man become? And what price had he paid for the knowledge?
Dwahvel had no idea, but one thing was for certain. Artemis was hurt; in fact, he was carrying some terrible wounds. Had those injuries been physical, there would be a pool of blood on her pillows and floor. As it was, he looked rumpled and tired, his eyes haunted. She had to find a way to help.
"Then how may I assist Artemis?" she asked.
The anger seeped out of his expression. "You may give him a room."
"A temporary one, or a permanent one?" she dared to ask.
Artemis remained silent for a long, long time. "Permanent," he answered at last.
"Then it is yours," she said, feeling a flutter of hope.
He gave her the faintest of smiles.
Unfortunately, she had more to say, and it was likely to steal that small smile from his face. "I feel compelled to warn you that the news of your return will spread quickly. You know what this will mean. You and the drow left a power vacuum in your wake. Mad scrambling followed your sudden exit, the Basadoni guild underwent a massive restructuring, and confusion reigned for some time over what had really occurred. Your appearance here will make the guilds nervous and angry. They need their newfound stability to function, and the drow both created and left chaos in their wake."
Artemis frowned, nodding, and Dwahvel decided he looked like a man who had lost the only sanctuary left in the world.
"You will have to tread lightly, my friend," she said in the kindest voice she could muster. "And declare your intent apart from the game. They must learn that you will not be interfering or competing with them. A few well-placed contacts can help begin that process. Until then—"
Artemis smirked. "Until then I am trapped in your house, under your protection, like Dondon once was?" He shook his head. "I have had enough of prisons and chains. I will not accept such a fate."
Dwahvel was undeterred. "And I won't allow you to suffer it. When have I ever failed you? Give me a bit of time to smooth out the sand, and then you will be able to move freely."
Artemis locked gazes with her once again, seeming to weigh her words. "Very well. I trust you. Only you, but I do."
The admission shocked Dwahvel to the depth of her being and provided her with more proof than she would ever need that this man truly was not Artemis Entreri.

Three nights later, Artemis lay on the roof of the Copper Ante and stared at the stars. They arched over him like the enchanted dome of a temple, sparkling yellow, red, and white. Thousands upon thousands of those stars pierced the blackness of the night, tiny pinpricks of light in utter darkness, and Artemis stared at them until he felt he could reach out and burn his fingers upon one. To him, the sight was sinister.
The curse that had been Idalia's flute had enabled him to see beauty in nature, like the rugged grace of Vaasa. But he no longer considered it a gift. The flute had raped his heart and mind, forcing him forward into memories and emotions he wasn't sure he wanted in the first place. There had been a moment's warmth, a moment's surety that the emotions were a blessing. That life was better with love, better with the realization of beauty. That there was hope to be had.
But it had been another lie in a lifetime of lies. A false hope, a fool's dream. He had been right the first time. Been right when he had fought Drizzt and damned the drow for his idealism. Right when he had claimed all life had to offer was deceit and betrayal, and the only thing to consider was survival or death. There was nothing more.
Artemis's stomach clenched at the thoughts, his old anger burning under his skin, but then the trapdoor to the roof opened and Dwahvel climbed up to join him.
"I thought you might want a touch of supper," she said, sitting beside him and presenting him with a bowl of stew.
Artemis wasn't sure he could ever eat again.
Dwahvel sat the bowl beside him and then placed one hand upon his forehead. "You haven't become feverish have you? You look terribly pale, almost grey. You have ever since you arrived."
Artemis glanced at her, startled by her warm touch. For a brief moment he saw another face—the face of a woman broken by poverty and disease. For an instant, it was her hand that had touched his forehead, much like her hands had bathed the wounds caused by the drunken and abusive Belrigger. He shook the image away. "No, I am not ill. I absorbed the life force of an unusual man, and it altered my skin tone."
Dwahvel seemed to consider this revelation for a moment. "Are you otherwise unharmed?"
Artemis sighed. "I seem to be aging more slowly." Longer to live in this hellish life.
"Then you shall remain handsome and agile for some time to come," she teased lightly.
Artemis snorted.
"But on to business," Dwahvel continued, her professionalism asserting itself. "I met with representatives of the Basadoni and Pook guilds, as well as the Rakers. Securing your safety will be a long and difficult process, but I have begun the process." She smirked. "It helps that they each owe me favors."
Artemis wondered yet again if it would prove impossible for him to stay in Calimport after all. Why had he thought to try to call this his home?
"I told them that you and I were negotiating a contract as business partners," Dwahvel said, "and that you have become more interested in the spying and information-gathering side of the business."
"Except I want nothing to do with the game at—" Artemis stopped short. "Was that a proposition?"
"If you are no longer an assassin and no longer a thief, what do you plan to do with your life?" the Halfling asked. "You must have some form of gainful employment, even if it's just to assuage your boredom. Unless you plan to use your formidable skills as a warrior in the cause of a god or goddess?"
Artemis snickered. "No. I'll just use them to keep a particular set of hypocrites on track."
Dwahvel blinked at that statement.
Artemis continued before she could ask. "I suppose it is a place to begin. As you say, I must have some task to do. Preferably a challenging one. I suppose spying and gathering information will do for now. I certainly have enough experience in it." He considered his intelligent little friend. "But do you really believe that you will convince the guilds of my change in profession?"
It was Dwahvel's turn to snicker. "I have resources and methods. Give me time."
"And are you truly willing to have me as a partner? Remember that I refuse to serve anyone."
Dwahvel nodded, her expression softening. "I know. We have worked together professionally enough for me to know our partnership would be successful."
He pondered her words and thought through all the information and items she had acquired for him in the past and the way she'd helped him to succeed against Kimmuriel and Raiguy. And most of all, he considered the friendship and constancy she had shown him. "I agreed that I would let you work your magic," he said.
She smiled and pushed the bowl of stew toward him. "Excellent."
He watched her leave, then dutifully choked down the stew. He had to keep his strength up, even if the idea of food made him nauseated.
But when he lay back down to stare at the sky again, he found the stars looked a bit less sinister.

Artemis stood and surveyed the small office that Dwahvel had arranged for him and nodded in approval. Over the past tenday, his friend had ordered all he would need; in the meantime, he had picked out a few jobs for himself, including a particularly difficult exploration of a nobleman's house and all its hidden wares. Now the office was ready for Artemis's use, and he surveyed the contents with satisfaction.
The ebony desk was simple in design, as was its accompanying red leather chair. Two human-sized and two Halfling-sized chairs were placed in a half-moon circle before the desk. Rugs of red, gold, and black weave decorated the floor, with matching tapestries on the wall. Brass candelabra and oil lamps sat upon the desk and small tables in the room. More importantly, these mundane items held magical and mechanical defenses. Respected and trustworthy informants lived with less danger than assassins, but the job wasn't risk-free.
Artemis took his seat behind the large desk, satisfied that the jobs he would choose to take would challenge him but that he would also have time for other avenues of interest. Now all he had to do was determine what he wanted, which was proving difficult considering how empty and raw he still felt. Perhaps in a few days he would go check on the progress of Gositek—a man he intended to brutally haunt for the rest of his life since there was no other way to be sure his demands were carried out. But for now, he would simply read through a few scrolls of information Dwahvel had given him. With a sigh, Artemis opened the first scroll.
At that moment, a brilliant blue screen formed in the center of the room, and an outrageously dressed dark elf stepped through. Artemis slammed the scroll down as Jarlaxle tipped his oversized purple hat to him.
"Get out," Artemis snapped. "I told you I did not care where you went, and the implication was I never wanted to see you again."
Jarlaxle smiled. "And I told you I could find you no matter where you went, the implication being I would like to check in on you from time to time."
Artemis stood, placing his hands on the hilts of Charon's Claw and his vampiric dagger. "Get. Out."
Jarlaxle held up one ring-laden hand in a dramatic request for patience. "I have not come to whisk you away on an adventure or to try to pull you back into my fold—although I am certain my adventures are far more exciting. As you said to me, you have your path, and I have mine. I merely came to give you a present."
Artemis ground his teeth together. "I want nothing from you. Nothing except for you to leave. I didn't want your flute, I didn't want your hat, and I didn't want you to rescue me from King Gareth and his self-righteous friends. I refuse to owe you anything."
Jarlaxle's grin faltered slightly, as though he'd felt a twang of remorse, but he recovered instantly and wagged his finger at the man. "Of course you owe me nothing. You rescued me from the Crystal Shard, and I rescued you from King Gareth. All our debts are cancelled."
Artemis was momentarily taken aback by both Jarlaxle's logic and his admission.
"Now, please accept my gift," the drow said. "I have ever considered you a kindred spirit and a friend. Surely I may be allowed to leave you with something."
Artemis narrowed his eyes, and his sword hand twitched. "Oh, you have left me with something, indeed."
But Jarlaxle continued to smile, and from under his rainbow-colored cape he pulled a small furry animal and set it on Artemis's desk.
Artemis didn't know whether to be suspicious or dumbfounded, so he ended up being both. "A puppy? What am I, a child?"
"Hardly." Jarlaxle patted the little dog's head. "Athrogate tells me that dogs are considered by many to be the best pets because they are tireless companions and undyingly loyal." He tipped his hat again. "Please enjoy!" And with those words, he stepped back through the dimensional door and disappeared.
"Bastard," Artemis replied, one beat too late. He eyed the puppy with distaste, expecting a trap. It was a pit bull, probably around six months old, and it had a solid white coat except for a single black spot over its right ear. Artemis picked it up gingerly, inspecting it closely for magical items. Was there a collar, perhaps, through which Jarlaxle could constantly spy on him?
But Artemis found no collar. In fact, when he passed his enchanted gauntlet over the barking puppy, he sensed no magic emanating from the animal at all. It appeared to be a perfectly normal dog with no strings attached.
That meant it was a message.
Artemis stared at the puppy, which was now wagging its tail and licking his hand. He'd never had the time or interest for a pet, and he certainly didn't want any reminders of Jarlaxle. However, he wasn't possessed of enough cruelty to kill the dog as a substitution for killing the drow who brought it, so he'd just give it away.
The puppy bumped against his hand, asking to be rubbed, and Artemis absentmindedly scratched its ears. Who among Dwahvel's associates might want a puppy? Damn Jarlaxle for saddling him with yet another problem! He hoped the dimensional door misfired and scattered the drow's body parts across all the realms of the universe.
An hour later the dog was asleep on his foot while Artemis skimmed through the last of Dwahvel's helpful scrolls.

Chapter Two: This Day and Forever Afterward
Artemis relaxed against the silken pillows arranged in the corner of Dwahvel's room and considered his friend, who appeared deep in contemplation. It had taken a month for him to feel like talking about anything that had happened, but over the past tenday, Artemis had told her bits and pieces of the story: Idalia's flute, Jarlaxle, King Gareth, Grandmaster Kane, and even Calihye. Still, he had not yet been able to tell her of his mother, step-father, or uncle, or the horrible truth about the temple of Selune and the man who had really sired him.
As he had expected, Dwahvel had listened to his tale without judgment. She had remained quiet when needed, and she'd asked questions when needed, sending Artemis down different paths of thought and analysis.
"What did she say again?" Dwahvel asked at last, coming out her thoughts.
Entreri sighed. Talking of Calihye was difficult, and he didn't wish to spend much more time on the subject. "She was babbling. She kept apologizing over and over." He growled at the memory. "Then she said something along the lines of 'You were leaving, you can't leave, I can't let you.' And she said she was sorry again." He snorted. "Then she told me I could never hurt her. She mocked me."
Dwahvel chewed her lip. "Perhaps not intentionally. It sounds as though she was mentally unbalanced, driven mad with grief over the loss of her first lover and the imminent loss of you."
Artemis gave her a sharp look.
Dwahvel held up her hand. "Please hear me out. I'm not excusing her behavior by any means. But I do believe that somewhere in her fractured mind, she loved you. Her love was true, but she could not express it in a healthy way." She shook her head. "I'm sorry. It is unfair that you were subjected to such a warped case of love."
Artemis crossed his arms over his chest. "It's the way of the world. And it hardly matters anymore."
Dwahvel started to speak again, but stopped short, apparently deciding not to push him any further on this topic. It was that quality of her personality that made Artemis appreciate her. Not only was she the lone genuine, loyal friend he'd ever had, she didn't press him when he didn't want to talk. She gave him space, allowed him to process his troubles at his own speed. She left him alone when he wanted, and she provided him company when he wanted. She gave him the simple freedom to be himself and stood by his side in the process.
"As for the flute," Dwahvel was saying, "I think if you had found it and chosen to use it on your own—used it in less stressful times and under less duress—it would have proven to be more a blessing than a curse. It is not a bad thing to enjoy life or to care for others." She smiled. "I don't find it a curse to be your friend."
Artemis Entreri would have answered that admission with a barb or a threat or some other caustic remark. This Artemis, however, simply nodded. "The exception to the rule," he said.
"Then enjoy the exceptions you find," she replied. "The flute is not here to take advantage of you when you do."
Artemis stared at a spot to the left of her shoulder and considered her advice. It was one more strand to the tapestry he was weaving—the tapestry of his new life and what he wanted to make of it. Artemis had built himself up out of the ashes of destruction many times—as a child new to the streets, as a man escaped from Menzoberranzan, and as a man trapped between the guilds, the drow, and Crenshinibon. He would do it now again. No matter what pain or devastation The Powers That Be might throw his way, he would always fight his way back, one minute at a time if necessary.

From the shade of a shanty hut, Artemis stood on a hill above the Protector's House and studied the reconstruction of the temple. He'd already checked on Gositek once before, about two tendays earlier, and found the man hard at work overseeing both the rebuilding efforts and the lesser priests collecting prayer requests. This initial inspection had left Gositek alive for another day, but Artemis didn't trust priests as far as he could have thrown a mountain into the ocean. So he was back again, keeping a suspicious eye on the proceedings.
After watching lesser priests writing down the peasants' requests—without payment, the ex-assassin noted—Artemis walked to the paupers' graveyard and considered the progress there. He had not come to gaze over Shanali's grave, for in his mind she really was laid to rest, but rather to see if Gositek were going to be allowed to survive the night. What he found told him that Gositek was trying to be good for now: a stone slab had been erected at the side of the graveyard, and a short list of names had been carved into it. A priest was kneeling before the stone, deep in prayer.
Artemis nodded once to himself and turned to walk away, only to find a young boy of about nine years standing behind him. He was holding a handful of rocks, and there were tears standing in his eyes. At Artemis's frown, the child spoke.
"My mama-hal is buried here," the child said, as if he thought he were being demanded to explain himself. He pointed to the stone slab with his free hand. "They buried her here and then put her name up there. Now I bring rocks to put on her grave."
Artemis nodded and tried to walk past, not wanting to be drawn into a conversation with the upset boy.
The child, however, seemed to have other ideas. "Selune said you were the one."
Artemis stopped in his tracks and stared back at the boy. "Your pardon?"
"My papa-hal prays to Selune hisself," the child said. "He don't ask the priests to do it. Papa-hal said a nice-dressed man would come and punish the evil priests. Selune told him so. You were the one—I saw it."
Artemis frowned. "Selune should have taken care of those priests long before now if she were so concerned."
The child shrugged. "Maybe she just wanted you to do it."
"It matters not either way," Artemis snapped. "I took care of it, and if the priests are smart at all, there will not be any further problems."
The boy nodded once, like a page accepting a proclamation. "I know."
Artemis frowned and spun on his heel, walking away.
"Thank you!" the boy called behind him.

That night, Artemis sat at his desk with a particularly strong cup of Calishite coffee. The potent, hazelnut-infused aroma filled the air, and he relaxed under the soft glow of the candelabra and oil lamps. As soon as he was seated his pit bull, which he'd named Slayer, padded across the room and proceeded to fall asleep on his foot. Strange puppy, that one, but a good watchdog. He was loath to admit it, but she did make a good companion—she was always happy to see him, hated the same people he hated, and she scared fools and drunkards into urinating on themselves.
Artemis took a sip of his coffee and considered the task at hand. He needed to jot down a few notes on a man he spied on periodically, and writing the notes brought a smile to his face. Every venture he made into that man's palace kept Artemis's wits sharp, not to mention that someday all his gathered information would bring about the man's doom. Artemis's new life seemed destined to involve the downfall of hypocritical priests—this time a priest of Tyr. One could have a worse fate.
Therefore, it was a great irritation that for the second time in two months, a blue screen appeared in the center of his office, and a smiling drow stepped through.
"Good evening, Artemis," Jarlaxle said, tipping his purple hat.
Slayer stood up and growled, and Artemis instantly liked her all the more. He leaned back in his leather chair and propped his feet on the desk, crossing his ankles in the process. There was no need to stand: the room was equipped like a magical armory, and Artemis had his own weapons and gauntlet. "I had hoped to not see you for at least a decade."
Jarlaxle chuckled. "I had to see how you were liking your puppy."
Artemis glanced down at the growling dog. "Better, now that she obviously hates you." He sighed. "What do you really want?"
Jarlaxle paused, and that caught Artemis's attention. He never hesitated.
"Kimmuriel claims I spend too much time explaining myself to people who he feels don't deserve it," the drow said, his confidence apparently returning. "So I am quite sure he would be shocked to know I am going to relate the story I am about to tell you. But I have a point to make with it."
Artemis narrowed his eyes. It was true that Jarlaxle was not a normal drow, and his strange speech suggested he was going to fly in the face of yet another drow convention. This could not be good.
"Once upon a time there was a drow baby," Jarlaxle began, "who was unfortunate enough to be born as the third male of the household. His mother, of course, tried to shove a dagger through his heart the instant he was born, since Lolth demands such sacrifices. However, this particular matron mother had a powerful enemy who used psionics to shield the baby from the stab. The matron, horrified by this apparent rejection of her offering, stabbed the baby over and over, but to no avail."
Artemis stared at the drow, his jaw nearly dropping over the shock of Jarlaxle's admission. Even though it wasn't information that Artemis could ever use against him, the story was still a very deep revelation of self. What was the drow up to? Was he trying to manipulate him again? Or was this somehow the drow's faint compassionate streak at work? Perhaps a bit of both?
"The baby's brother then picked him up," Jarlaxle continued, "and the baby unwittingly discharged all the violent energy into his brother, killing him horribly."
Artemis understood the analogy at once. "But your brother is still dead, and it is still your fault. Accidental or not, you destroyed him. And you are hardly sorry for having done it."
Again came the faint pause, as though Jarlaxle had felt a moment's twang of guilt over his manipulations. "Artemis, all I—"
But Artemis did not let him finish. "You sought to open my heart because my life was empty and my soul limited. But I did not ask for your help, and my agony was your entertainment. Yet most of all, your life is just as limited as mine. Your existence is consumed with acquisition, and your emptiness drives you to use the drama of others' lives to assuage your boredom." He smirked. "It's a sad state of heart, Jarlaxle, but I have no flute with which to alter you."
Jarlaxle, for one of the few times in his life, was momentarily speechless. "I wanted to ease the frown off your face forever," he said at last. "The very frown that darkens your face now."
"Then leave," Artemis said, "that I might smile."
Jarlaxle looked disappointed, but he tipped his hat and turned toward the awaiting portal.
"You'll be back, will you not?" Artemis asked with a sigh.
Jarlaxle glanced back, a smile once again working its way onto his face. "The dog won't live forever, so I shall have to bring you a new puppy one day. And maybe in the meantime, one shade-infused human can come to accept that it was not my intention for things to work out the way they did—that I did not intend to harm him."
Artemis frowned. "And what will you want from me on that day?"
"Information, perhaps," Jarlaxle replied. "You are apparently a rising power in that area. Or perhaps it is simply that I have forever felt kinship for you, my friend. It is rare to find one such as you."
Artemis stared at him a moment, seeing the tiny spark of light in the drow's black soul. There was only one way to deal with the Jarlaxle's mutual overtures of future business deals and future friendship, and if the drow took the bait, it might actually prove worthwhile. If not, the ex-assassin would simply cast him out of his life again.
"Then return if you dare," Artemis said, smirking over his plan. "But I will not allow you to have assaulted my closed heart without returning the favor."
Jarlaxle blinked at the reply, then laughed. "Well, you always did prefer a challenge!" He bowed extravagantly and left.
Artemis shook his head. He could ponder the odd duality of the drow's heart later. For now, the night was young, and Artemis had more plans to make. Plans for a new life.

TBC

@темы: Entreri, Jarlaxle, в запас

---

May you live in interesting time

Damnable D's by Dogurasu

It was a state of being Jarlaxle had never seen, and thought he would never see, in the likes of disciplined Artemis Entreri.
The dark elf couldn’t believe his crimson eyes as he walked into their room at the inn in Waterdeep; there Entreri sat, penning a scroll at a small table. Next to the assassin’s inkwell was a bottle of spirits, nearly empty as Entreri wrote. His black hair was disheveled and his grayish skin, the fault of an unfortunate incident with a shade’s essence being sucked through the assassin’s vampiric dagger, was a slightly brighter hue.
Jarlaxle chuckled then as he realized that Artemis Entreri was naked, though there was no one else in the room.
“That is a fair sight more of you than I cared to see, khal’abbil,” Jarlaxle said with a disarming grin.
Entreri looked up, focused his dark-eyed gaze on the drow, and pointed directly to him, barely swaying. That he was swaying at all spoke volumes to Jarlaxle; while Entreri was in little danger – the assassin was skilled and aware enough to have his dagger within easy reach, behind the bottle – the drow knew that Entreri never got himself drunk.
In this particular instance, Jarlaxle found the whole idea perfectly amusing.
“Me, Entreri?” he prompted, pointing an ebon finger at himself.
“Drow,” Entreri replied, simply and clearly, writing the word down on the scroll.
“Very good, my friend! Now perhaps we can expand upon your vocabulary. What is this?” Jarlaxle put one hand on the table to indicate it.
Entreri looked up at Jarlaxle. “With you, it could be any sort of disaster. Disaster!” he exclaimed, scribbling the word on the scroll. “Dragons, the dead… Dracoliches!”
“Sometimes a table is just a table.” Jarlaxle couldn’t help but snicker as he watched Entreri write; his crisp, clean lettering was untouched by his intoxication, but the subject matter made him laugh. “And what do we have here? ‘A Death-Dealer’s Declaration of Damnable Ds’? My dear Artemis, have you actually found a sense of humor in drunkenness?”
Entreri glared up at Jarlaxle, paused, and then pointed his dagger at the drow. “Drunkenness,” he added, writing that down with one hand. “D’aerthe.”
“Dagger?” asked Jarlaxle dryly, looking at the vampiric blade.
“I’m calling it a knife from now on.” Entreri continued to write.
Jarlaxle moved behind Entreri, grabbing a cloak and wrapping it around the human’s shoulders. “Certainly demons are damnable; will you add those to your list?”
“Demons!” Entreri cried, scribing the word immediately.
Jarlaxle laughed as he glanced to the side of the room, hearing a thud that Entreri chose to ignore. Entreri stared at the drow for a long moment, just before a black-bearded dwarf, an associate they both knew as Athrogate, threw open the door to their room. He stood still for a time, glowering at the human and receiving an equally withering glare in reply.
“Quiet down with all yer roarin’!” Athrogate demanded. “Can’t ye see this dwarf’s for snorin’?”
“Dwarves!” Entreri yelled, emphatically for Athrogate’s sake, jotting the word down on his list.
“Demanding dwarves of doggerel,” Jarlaxle added; Entreri amended his list accordingly.
“What’re ye two about, then?” Athrogate asked, striding in.
“It seems our friend here is upset with a series of things beginning with the Common letter d,” Jarlaxle explained. “He decided to make a list of it all.”
“What about that other drow ye telled me about?” Athrogate said. “What’s his name, Drizzit Dudden?”
“Drizzt Do’Urden!” Entreri growled, his quill diving into the inkwell and lashing across the page with such ferocity that Jarlaxle thought he might gouge the parchment.
“Certainly that one requires more,” Jarlaxle said, propping his chin in his hand as he thought. “Drizzt Do’Urden, that dervish drow of derring-do…”
Entreri rewrote the entry, then stared up at the rakish dark elf. “You are mocking my list.”
“Certainly not!” Jarlaxle gripped his chest, stumbling back into Athrogate and using the dwarf for support, all in extreme melodrama. “Why, Entreri, you wound me so! After I clothe you and bring you such fine company…”
“Dramatics,” the assassin said coolly, swaying just slightly to his left as he locked his gaze onto Jarlaxle. His pen remained in perfect position on the parchment as he took down the word.
“If it’s a list of durned d’s ye write, ye’ll add in dawn by the end of the night,” Athrogate chimed in.
Entreri took down the word, following it with another. “Death-dealer,” he explained. “You’ll both note I’m an assassin.”
“What’s the difference?” asked the dwarf.
“Intelligence,” Entreri and Jarlaxle stated simultaneously. Both of them laughed, drawing a strange, somewhat worried look from Athrogate.
“The two o’ ye have too much fun,” Athrogate muttered as he walked from the assassin’s room. “I’m gettin’ some sleep afore I see the sun.”
“Why did you bring him along, Jarlaxle?”
“Bwahaha!”
Jarlaxle could only give a little laugh in reply as Athrogate left, but he noticed Entreri’s left-side listing growing more severe. Entreri seemed relatively oblivious to it until the dark elf helped him lean back up to his seat.
“What could have driven you to drinking like this so soon after our paths crossed again, my friend?” Jarlaxle asked, sitting on the bed, still smiling a bit. “Never have I seen you in such a state, from Vaasa and Damara to Calimshan…”
Entreri could only chuckle slightly. Why, indeed, was he so drunk?
“Perhaps because I drank a bit too much.”
Jarlaxle smirked. “Why, then, would you drink so much? I thought you had faced off many of your personal demons back in Calimshan, when we first parted ways.”
“Some demons died back there, mortal and mental,” Entreri said, choosing to be honest with Jarlaxle; after all, the drow had been known to read his very thoughts. “Others reared their ugly heads and require future destruction.” He began to write the word down, but stopped in the middle and pushed his writing aside. “I would prefer to keep those thoughts to my own mind, thank you, if you haven’t already read them.”
“Do you really believe I would do something like that to you?” Jarlaxle asked sarcastically. “It has not crossed my mind to read your thoughts while you’re intoxicated; I’d rather not see things in my mind’s eye through ale-blinded thought transference.”
Entreri gave Jarlaxle a disbelieving look, sending the drow a slightly fuzzy mental image that rocked him back in a fit of giggles.
“Artemis Entreri, certainly an assassin of your level of skill knows enough about anatomy to realize that what you propose is physically impossible!”
“Give it a try sometime.”
“I assume you speak from experience?”
“You’ve always assumed much about me.”
Jarlaxle laughed, far more sincerely. “It is indeed marvelous to have you back, khal’abbil,” he said. “Still, I do wish you would explain why you have returned. It is against your very character to…”
Entreri stood, slightly dizzy, but balanced enough to maintain his footing. The cloak closed around him of its own accord; of course Jarlaxle would have given him no ordinary garment!
“Nothing I have done around you has been in my character,” Entreri said simply. His movements were not threatening, even as he retrieved his dagger. “From stealing Charon’s Claw, to returning to Calimshan to confront Belrigger and the priesthood, and all the trouble with the Zhengyian artifacts from Vaasa to He’ll-Eat-Or-Gobble-Us…”
Jarlaxle bit back his laughter this time; he had to give Entreri a bit of slack for his drinking. “Do you mean, ‘Heliogabalus,’ Entreri?”
Entreri blinked as he caught his error far too late. He decided to ignore it.
“My point is that nothing is as it seems around you,” he went on, “even when they should be. Goblins die from flames you form that never exist. People who should be at each other’s throats manage to keep from killing each other. Things thought destroyed and people thought dead seem to return from nowhere.” He locked gazes with Jarlaxle here, a gesture whose significance was not lost on the drow.
“People find new purpose where, once before, only a void existed.”
Jarlaxle smiled widely at the comment – for a moment. Something clicked in his mind as bits of information fell into place; of course he knew Entreri was headed for Waterdeep long in advance, and Entreri had known to seek him out. He gave no particular reason why, instead relying on the drow’s previous interest in his emotional being – a massive chance on his part! – and allowing himself to be found. To allow himself to get as drunk as this in his presence was no coincidence.
In his own way, Entreri was making an extreme show of trust to the dark elf.
Jarlaxle found himself touched, more deeply than he had expected.
“You sought me out because you were having problems back home that you couldn’t face alone,” the drow guessed, masking all but the most minor signals of his brief emotional rush. “You wanted to face them with me?”
“Yes,” Entreri said. “Mostly because you got me into them in the first place.”
Jarlaxle broke into a laugh. “Ah, Artemis, I was worried that you were feeling more strongly for me than appropriate for a man.”
“Asanque, khal’abbil,” Entreri replied evenly, dipping into one of Jarlaxle’s low bows, right down to pretending to sweep the ground with a wide-brimmed hat.
Jarlaxle’s laugh was barely controlled, just quiet enough to keep from disturbing the other patrons of the inn as Entreri’s bow proved to be a move too dramatic for his inebriation to allow. He fell to the floor before Jarlaxle could catch him, giving the drow double reason to enjoy a bit of mirth at his expense; given Entreri’s limited command of the Drow language, it was likely that the assassin did not know that asanque was a word with a double meaning.
While he knew Entreri meant ‘likewise,’ the word could also mean ‘as you wish!’
“What makes you believe I got you into such a mess as this?” Jarlaxle asked, helping Entreri into his bed. “Certainly I didn’t force you to drink bottles of spirits.”
“Was it not you who proclaimed himself as my muse, Jarlaxle?” Entreri said. “Certainly you gave me that accursed key to the emotions I had so cleverly locked away for, as it turned out, my own protection.”
“Your protection? Do tell.”
“When we assailed the replica of Castle Perilous – forged by the words of the Zhengyian tome and the magic of Arrayan Faylin Maggotsweeper, held together by the power of the black dracolich in the tunnels deep below it – I found myself constantly distracted, at first, by the half-orc wizard,” Entreri explained. “I kept seeing the image of my dearest friend, Dwahvel Tiggerwillies, in her face. When I lost Calihye in Calimport and we parted ways, I went back to her. Feelings that I had kept long buried – until your influence with Idalia’s flute – resurfaced when I saw her again, and when I tried to explain them to her…”
“She ran?”
Entreri nodded, shirking the cloak and returning it to Jarlaxle. “I’ve come to find out that she, of course, never shared similar feelings. I cannot fault her; as I’ve come to realize myself, those of us that can feel emotions keenly cannot easily control them. She did not run so much as she began to distance herself from me, uncomfortable as she was. She wanted to maintain the friendship, but we both knew that everything would be… uneasy… as long as I remained. We parted company as friends, and…”
The assassin’s mouth turned upward into a self-deprecating grin. “Indeed, it was I who ran. And of all people to run to, I ran to find you, Jarlaxle D’aerthe.”
Jarlaxle sat back in a chair, clasping his hands together. “Why run to me, then, if I caused you so much grief with your feelings?” he asked. “Are you not running from those very feelings?”
“I plan to run alongside you to quell those feelings,” Entreri stated. “If there is, perhaps, a road of adventure to follow…”
“I cannot allow you to destroy your emotions yet again, Entreri; I would be running counter to my own work.”
“I will not allow you to destroy my emotions again, Jarlaxle; I run from the pain of my losses in Calimshan, not from the fact that I have truly loved and may find the chance to love again…”
Entreri interrupted himself with a profound yawn. The drink was making him tired now, the energy from before drained. He made himself comfortable in the bed, though his jeweled dagger even now remained in easy reach, tucked under the pillow along with his hand.
Jarlaxle could hardly contain his excitement as he surged from his seat. “We will ride toward the north within the tenday, my friend!” he said. “We should make Luskan within the fortnight, and we should reach our goal soon after…”
His exuberance was suddenly stolen as he realized just what all waited at that future goal. Not quite asleep – never quite asleep, to be perfectly honest – Entreri shifted to look at Jarlaxle with a wary eye.
“What is that goal, khal’abbil?” The assassin’s voice took a sharp edge.
The drow gave what could have been a sheepish, challenging, or simply disarming, grin. “Ten-Towns, perhaps. I have heard about the corpse of a dragon, of a barbarian tribe that still has dragon treasure hoarded in the mountains…”
“My list,” Entreri moaned. “I knew it was all coming together. Drow, dead dragons, dramatics, dwarves, disaster, daggers, and that one dervish dark elf of derring-do…”
“You believe Drizzt Do’Urden to be alive?”
“You are here, Jarlaxle, and I have come to you; stranger things still have happened.” Entreri buried his face in the pillow; beneath it, he clenched his dagger. “It would not surprise me if your lost wizard-priest Rai-Guy restored him, not five minutes after I left the replica of Crenshinibon…”
Jarlaxle did well enough to hide the sound of his surprised choke; were Entreri looking, the assassin would have seen his face twist into a look of shock that was utterly foreign to the handsome visage of the dark elf.
“Will you still go?” he dared to ask.
Entreri sighed. “There is a Calishite curse spoken by merchants and pashas alike, and more than once it has been uttered to me. I find that it has come true – let the road take me where it will.”
“What is that curse, Artemis?”
Entreri smiled, looking back at Jarlaxle for just a moment.
“May you live in interesting times.”
Jarlaxle laughed and he dipped a sweeping bow, the diatryma feather of his outrageous hat sweeping the floor. Entreri waved him off with his free hand and laid back down, his smirk unhidden as he slowly drifted back to sleep. Jarlaxle straightened and willed himself to silence, then touched the chair he had been sitting in; once a table, it now folded and flattened into a simple, unblemished disc that soon passed for one of the buttons on Jarlaxle’s vest.
Sometimes a table is so much more than a table, he thought, grinning to himself. And sometimes, an adventure past is so much more than what has already been seen.
“May you live in interesting times,” Entreri had said, and as the idea passed once more through Jarlaxle’s mind, he laughed again and went into his room for the remainder of the night.
Interesting times, indeed!

@темы: Entreri, Jarlaxle, в запас

---

Angel Music

Of Music and Men by Ariel D

Ten days had passed since Jarlaxle and Entreri had been commissioned by some self-important copper dragons to steal loot. Ten days since one of the copper dragons in question had given Entreri a wooden flute and ordered him to learn to play it. Ten days since Jarlaxle had begun claiming the assassin wasn’t refined enough in skill to learn any musical instrument.
Ten days.
Artemis Entreri had yet to get more than an airy whistling noise out of the damn thing.
The assassin stood in the candelabra-filled apartment he shared with Jarlaxle—the apartment that was thankfully drowless at the moment—and contemplated the atrocity which was defiling his bed. The grey wooden flute lay innocently in the middle of his linen sheets where he’s tossed it, its finger holes seeming to gaze at him smugly. The Evil Flute did not understand what kind of enemy it had made.
The assassin walked silently to his bed and picked up the offending instrument. “You’ll never win,” he told it. Placing the flute against his mouth, he tried once again to produce a sound—any sound other than that irritating airy one.
Phooooooo. Ftph. Fthssss. Phoofssssssssst. Ftph.
The Evil Flute did a graceful arch back onto Entreri’s bed, and the assassin spent several moments dreaming up new and inventive deaths for irritating wooden instruments and equally annoying copper dragons. After several moments completely lost in a rosy haze of bloody daydreams, Entreri returned to glaring at The Evil Flute. It didn’t know how lucky it was that he hadn’t chopped it into tiny pieces.
If Entreri had been a less stubborn man, he would have carved a whistle out of the damn thing by now . . . or perhaps used it for firewood. But alas, Artemis Entreri was determined to never be beaten by anything—not an opponent, not a goody-goody drow, and certainly not by a stupid piece of wood.
Of course, there was also the issue of the powerful copper dragon who’d made it clear she’d wanted him to learn to play it. Angry dragons were generally not a good thing.
But that wasn’t why Entreri was going to learn to play The Evil Flute, he told himself. He was going to learn to play it to prove that he could. He was very intelligent and highly skilled, and he didn’t see that there should be any exception to what he could accomplish.
Besides, Jarlaxle would never let him live it down if he didn’t. And if there was anything Entreri did not want to do, it was give that exasperating drow more fodder with which to tease him.
As if on cue, the eye sore in question blew through the door, all smiles and glittering gold. The assassin could have sworn the drow had added five new necklaces to the cacophony of clinking metal which layered his throat. “Good evening, Artemis! And what a fine evening it is! Shall we dine?”
Entreri turned his glare upon the drow. “Why do you not simply paint your entire body with gold? It’d likely be less expensive and ultimately less garish.”
Jarlaxle threw his rainbow-colored cape off his shoulder and twirled his silvery, ferret-headed cane in one hand. The enormous purple feather in his hat bobbed as he titled his head to the side. “What a brilliant idea, my friend! Perhaps I shall.” His grin was wide and innocent, which always spelled doom. “Or perhaps not.”
“Dare I ask?” Entreri ventured.
“It is only that it’s a touch cold here in Damara.”
“What ever are you babbling about now?” Entreri turned back to The Evil Flute and snatched it up, putting it in his belt.
“Well, I would have to go naked, of course, so that everyone could enjoy the splendor of my body art.”
Entreri’s brain immediately tried to formulate a mental image, and he shuddered, knocking the thought from his mind. “If you ever make me imagine something like that again, I’ll pull your intestines out through your throat.”
Jarlaxle laughed. “Given your lack of imagination, I’m surprised you produced a mental image at all. But do tell me—was I handsome? Was it not spectacular?”
The drow was mere moments away from death. Entreri wondered if he realized it.
Probably.
“Come now,” Jarlaxle said, swooping back out of the apartment. “Fine food and beautiful women await us at the nearest tavern.”
“If you’d learn to cook, we wouldn’t have to spend so much gold on taverns,” the assassin shot back.
Jarlaxle’s white teeth seemed to take up most of his ebony face as he smiled. “How did you fair with the flute today, my friend? Have you coaxed out its secrets?”
Entreri, who was completely immune to Jarlaxle’s abrupt topic changes, didn’t so much as blink. “The flute and I are getting along fine,” he said, grabbing his cloak off the coat rack and exiting the room.
Jarlaxle snickered, and the assassin could tell he was in for an evening of teasing. Entreri applied himself to trapping their room and prepared himself for the onslaught.
“You really should give the flute to me,” Jarlaxle said, his tone quickly growing melodramatic. “I know how to caress it with my breath, to move my hands across its body. I’ll have it playing beautiful music within the night, I daresay! I’ll seduce its inner magic and—”
Entreri turned from the door-turned-death-trap and glared at the elf. “I never dreamed I would say this, but do hurry and lie with the dragon. I’m unsure how many more of your lewd innuendoes I can stomach.”
Jarlaxle, of course, merely laughed. “Really, now, my friend. You must learn to treat the flute with respect. It will never give up its song for you if you throw it around or curse at it.”
Entreri’s eyes narrowed, and he briefly wondered if The Evil Flute and the drow were in league. “You do not wish to hear my reply to that.”
Jarlaxle smiled sweetly at his friend as they started down the hallway. “Why not, my dear Artemis?”
“I was going to insult your hypothetical manhood.”
“You question my manhood? Well, when I get my body covered in gold, you will quickly learn that—”
Entreri moved his hands to his weapons’ hilts, and Jarlaxle began laughing.
“Perhaps I’ll commission to have you bronzed instead,” the assassin quipped. “Fully clothed, of course. If I remove your hat first, you might conceivably make a decent statue. Or, at the very least, a useful coat rack.”
The drow just grinned. “I would make a beautiful statue regardless of the material involved. My grace and beauty emanate from within me, showering everyone I meet with—”
“Endless nonsensical babble,” Entreri interrupted. “You could talk a drunken dwarf deaf and make a stone wall cry.”
“Why thank you!”
Entreri began slowly counting to one million. The drow lived to bait him, and banter aside, he wasn’t about to give him the pleasure of genuinely irritating him. They descended the stairs and crossed the street to the tavern which had become their new haunt.
The Flaming Frog tavern, though oddly named, served excellent food and (according to Jarlaxle, at least) had beautiful barmaids. Entreri himself could have cared less what the women looked like as long as they brought his food and refilled his drink promptly, but Jarlaxle could not eat without giving the assassin a running commentary on the women. Resigned to this fate, Entreri chose a corner table, which afforded them the room’s shadows and a view of the door, and sat down, keeping his patience firmly intact.
The tavern was only mildly crowded this night, with the murmur of voices only a hum in the background. The lack of a horde afforded the lecherous elf a good view of the barmaids as they moved from table to table. As soon as Jarlaxle sat across from Entreri, he made a show of surveying the room.
“Ah, the charming blonde is working tonight,” he noted with a smile. “And the wry brunette! Why, Artemis, we are in luck!”
“I would have thought you would have learned all their names by now,” Entreri replied dryly.
Jarlaxle stopped his appraisal long enough to grin at the assassin. “Oh, I have. And their preferences, too. But I assumed you’d be uninterested in the details. General designations are likely all they’ll ever be to you.” He shook his head in exaggerated resignation. “Really, Artemis, you should g—”
“Our barmaid approaches,” Entreri interrupted.
Jarlaxle glanced at the curvy, voluptuous young woman headed their way. “Ah! The spry strawberry blonde! Excellent.”
Entreri didn’t bother acknowledging that the elf had spoken.
“What can I get you sirs?” the young woman asked as she stopped at their table. If she had anything to recommend her, Entreri decided, it was her courage. She only seemed mildly discomforted at the presence of the drow—a true feat no matter how many times the mercenaries dined there. Even if Jarlaxle wasn’t drow, his gaudy attire would be enough to unsettle most people.
“Your finest wine and rarest steak—” the drow began.
“Well done,” Entreri cut in, “and cooked with garlic and onions.”
“Not garlic,” Jarlaxle said.
“Plenty of garlic,” the assassin added with a nasty smile.
The barmaid nodded and walked off, and as soon as she did, Jarlaxle gave Entreri a slanted glance. “No wonder you are forever without a woman. You reek of garlic half the time!”
“Does that annoy you?” the assassin asked.
“I am not a woman,” the drow replied.
“I remain not entirely convinced of that, but you have not answered my question.”
The elf grinned. “Of course I am not bothered!”
“I don’t believe you.”
Jarlaxle began chuckling. “You’re simply dodging my efforts to find you a beautiful woman.”
Entreri’s only reply was a small snort.
“Take the wry brunette for example. Sharp mind, cunning banter—”
“Do you wish for me to engage in political debate with her or seduce her?”
Jarlaxle laughed outright. “Well, I assume you don’t like dumb women.” He grinned wickedly. “Do brunettes not catch your fancy? What of blondes, then?”
Entreri studiously ignored the monologue.
“Red-heads it is, then! Truly, I must agree with you. There’s nothing more beautiful than a woman with deep auburn hair, or perhaps a shiny copper red, or even a—”
“Didn’t I tell you to hurry and lie with the dragon?”
Jarlaxle continued as though he hadn’t been interrupted. “—brighter red. Although blondes are attractive also. Or—wait!—a woman with satiny black hair. Yes. Long legs, pronounced curves, full lips, brown or green eyes . . .” The drow seemed to be headed into a pleasant daydream.
Entreri sighed. “Jarlaxle, you’re a whore.”
The elf blinked at him as though he was coming out of a daze. “Not at all! I would never demand that a female pay me for pleasure, no matter how well I’d met her needs.”
Entreri’s withering gaze could have shriveled a vineyard into a field of raisins. “I’ll pretend you didn’t say that.”
Jarlaxle grinned. “Really, now, you should relax and enjoy the finer things in life! Considering how well you understand the human body, I’m sure you would be the ladies’ favorite in no time! Why, I bet that—”
Entreri tuned out the elf again and started counting to one million once more. He found himself doing it so often now that he had begun unintentionally counting other things as well: his footsteps as he walked, stair steps as he climbed them, the number of people he passed on the street . . . If he wasn’t careful, the drow might drive him mad.
At that thought, the assassin reflected that it was a good thing he was so strong-willed. Only someone with nerves like dragon scales would be able to withstand the drow’s incessant bubbling chatter.
Unfortunately for the poor man, Entreri had counted all the cracks in the table before he realized what he was doing and stopped.
It was going to be a long night.

* * *

After supper, the mercenaries returned to their apartment. The fire in the fireplace both lent the room a cozy glow and warmed it nicely. The drow smiled as he entered and hung his cape and oversized hat on the coat rack. That task accomplished, Jarlaxle proceeded to curl into the red velvet chair and pull a leather-bound book off the table and into his lap.
As Entreri watched Jarlaxle settle into the wing-back chair, he was oddly reminded of a black cat. Well, a black cat dressed in a hideous carnival costume. “You’re going to read?”
“Certainly! It’s an excellent tale of adventure, heroism, and romance!” Jarlaxle waved the book in the air. “You really should read it. It would expand that dark, flat void you call a mind.”
Entreri sneered at him . . . and then hit upon the perfect plan. It was no secret that the assassin had yet to get a clear tone from the flute. So . . .
After shedding his own cloak and weapons belt (and lodging his dagger in the wall), Entreri settled cross-legged on his narrow bed and whipped out The Evil Flute. Jarlaxle’s ear drums were going to pay for all the times Entreri had suffered the drow’s incessant yapping.
Phooftsssssssss. Ftph. Phooooooo. Ftss. Ftssst.
Jarlaxle glanced up at the assassin with a smile but resumed reading.
Ftsssssss. Ftphooo. Ftsssstftssssst. Chirp!
Entreri pulled The Evil Flute away from his mouth and eyed it. It had never made that sound before. The assassin was plenty intelligent enough to ascertain that the angle of his lips and air stream were what had to be aligned correctly . . . that, and the position of his lower lip in relation to the hole. But getting all those things simultaneously positioned correctly was proving more difficult than he liked.
Well, if he didn’t hate the thing so much, perhaps it would be less challenging.
Resolving to be endlessly, purely, and flawlessly patient (if for no other reason than to successfully torture Jarlaxle), Entreri resumed his efforts. Inhaling deeply, he tried again. Airy, near-whistling sounds filled the room. Undeterred, the assassin continued—and kept the drow in his periphery so he could gauge his reaction.
Five minutes passed. Jarlaxle shifted in his chair.
Ten minutes passed. Jarlaxle had shifted his position a half dozen times. He had yet to turn the page he was on.
Fifteen minutes passed. Jarlaxle’s breathing had grown shallower in the way of someone who was losing his temper, and the skin around his eyes and mouth had grown tight. He was trying hard not to show his annoyance, Entreri could tell, but he wasn’t entirely succeeding.
Twenty minutes passed. The drow slammed his book shut and grinned sweetly at the human—that sugary I’m-Going-to-Kill-You-Slowly look.
“Do your lips not hurt from the effort?” the drow asked, his voice commendably even.
Entreri lowered the flute. Actually, his facial muscles ached so much he wondered if he’d be able to form coherent syllables when he spoke. “Why?”
“Just curious.” Jarlaxle opened his book and started reading again. Entreri grinned in spite of himself, discovering accidentally that smiling helped ease some of the pain from his face.
In a final show of stubborn pettiness—both toward The Evil Flute and Jarlaxle—Entreri lifted the thrice-damned wooden instrument to his mouth one more time and tried again.
A note came out.
“C sharp,” Jarlaxle commented without looking up, then jerked his head around and stared at the assassin.
Entreri stared at The Evil Flute like it’d suddenly sprouted leaves. Recovering, he shrugged and placed it on the bed beside him. “It was only a matter of time.”
“You’re stopping now? After only one note?” The instant the elf said those words, he looked like he wanted to cut out his own tongue.
Entreri grinned again. A wicked, diabolical grin. “Ah. Good point, my friend.” With stoic determination, he picked up The Evil Flute and explored every single note and sound he could create.
Jarlaxle didn’t get any reading accomplished that night.

@темы: Entreri, Jarlaxle, в запас

---

Из первых уст...

Рассказ Сальваторе о том, как был придумал Drizzt Do'Urden.
Забавная история, в самом деле.

кучка английских букв

Then the proposal got accepted, and when Mary Kirchoff, then senior editor in TSR's book department, told me I'd be writing the second FORGOTTEN REALMS novel, she reminded me that now we had to set the book thousands of miles from Doug's stomping ground, I needed a new sidekick for Wulfgar. I assured her that I'd get right on it and come up with something the following week.
"No, Bob," she responded, words I seem to hear too often from editors. "You don't understand. I'm going into a meeting right not to sell this proposal. I need a sidekick."
"Now?" I, in my never-before-in-the-world-of-publishing naivete, responded.
"Right now," she answered, rather smugly.
And then it happened. I don't know how. I don't know why. I merely said, "A drow."
There came a pause, followed by, in a slightly hesitant tone, "A dark elf?"
"Yeah," I said, growing more confident as the character began to take more definite shape in my mind. "A drow ranger."
The pause was longer this time. Then, in barely a whisper, the tremor of having to go tell this one to the mucky-mucks evident in her tone, she said, "What's his name?"
"Drizzt Do'Urden, of D'aermon N'achezbaeron, Ninth House of Menzoberranzan."
"Oh." Another pause. "Can you spell that?"
"Not a chance."
"A drow ranger?"
"Yup."
"Drizzit?" she asked.
"Drizzt," I corrected, for the first of 7.3 million times.
"Okay," the beleaguered editor agreed, probably thinking she could change my mind later.
But she didn't, of course. This is a testament to Mary Kirchoff: she let the creative person she hired do the creative thing and waited to see the result before taking out the hatchet (which never appeared).
Thus was Drizzt born.

@темы: матчасть, Что-то другое