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Control	By : BatPhace Category: A through F > Forgotten Realms Views: 3024 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Forgotten Realms, any of the settings, nor do I own any of the characters depicted here nor do I make any money from this work of fan fiction

Chapter List
- 1-Control
- 2-Part 2: Taking it Back
- 1
- 2
Originally published at FF.net, but I like it better here XD
~
Jarlaxle knew that he would have to be careful. Too aggressive and Artemis would become angry and fight the perceived threat; likewise, too cautious and the assassin would likely also become angry, seeing Jarlaxle's actions as patronizing in his current state of discombobulation. It would be a fine line the drow would have to tread carefully and with all the considerable cunning and cleverness at his disposal. This challenge though was one Jarlaxle could not refuse.
He kept telling himself that it was for Entreri's own good, that he had some vague obligation to help the assassin with the revelations that had come to light for the man at the behest of Idalia's flute. Jarlaxle could only watch helplessly as Artemis' rock solid control slipped further and further away from him. The magic of the flute was peeling the assassin's heart like a piece of fruit, bringing forth angers and passions that Artemis had not considered in decades. However, when Jarlaxle looked more closely to his own inner motives, he knew this was something he could not deny that he wanted, and had wanted for some time. In fact, the flute-inspired turmoil within Entreri of late provided the perfect opportunity for Jarlaxle to fulfill a desire he'd felt since salvaging the broken assassin from the trees outside Mithral Hall. His actions this night, as then, as always, were based in mutual benefit; Jarlaxle's favorite sort, he mused with a grin.
The thought of the flute gave the dark elf pause though, and the tiniest twinge of guilt poked at him from somewhere inexplicable. All this upheaval Artemis was experiencing was due to Idalia's flute, and the man would not have the flute were it not for Jarlaxle. Perhaps this storm was something Artemis Entreri needed to face; something the assassin would come to realize was a good thing in time, though clearly that time would be long in coming. Or perhaps he would simply try to kill Jarlaxle one day for his meddling. The drow shrugged to himself as though it did not matter, and indeed now it surely didn't. What was done was done.
With what appeared to be nothing but a circle of black fabric, Jarlaxle stood quietly outside Artemis' room, listening with ears trained in the silence of the Underdark to the assassin moving about within, muttering to himself too quietly for even those drow ears to catch. Purposely no doubt, Jarlaxle thought dryly. Entreri had been sequestered in his room for days, and for days before his internment he had been perfectly miserable and unwilling to enlighten Jarlaxle as to the cause of his dour mood -though Jarlaxle had his suspicions. So the ever clever mercenary had improvised, enlisting the skills of his racist but talented pscionicist lieutenant to delve lightly into the man's mind and discern the gist of his disposition. Kimmuriel grudgingly complied, and found something of interest - making the venture worthwhile to his inquisitive mind- that he had never expected of the tightly honed assassin; utter emotional pandemonium.
Of course, chaotic thoughts notwithstanding, the human was still mentally formidable, noteworthy by drow standards even Kimmuriel had to admit. Artemis noticed the gentle prodding of Kimmuriel's intrusion almost immediately, leading to his self-imposed lock in. Not that walls or doors could stop the psionicist, but Jarlaxle had gotten the point and called him off. Still, Jarlaxle had been greatly amused at Kimmuriel's rant on how Entreri was conducting himself like a spoiled child in need of discipline or death, but the mercenary understood that the behavior ran deeper than the pscionicist would ever believe. After three days however, Jarlaxle had humored the man enough he felt, and now it was time for action.
Being drow, and male drow especially, having been immersed in that wicked, sadistic culture for the better part of his centuries, Jarlaxle had a unique understanding of the power that lay in control; both in having it completely and in completely, freely, giving it away. Jarlaxle would not force his way into Entreri's bed, never that. His goal this night would be to aid Artemis in the latter, the giving over of control -his grip on it was presently tentative at best anyway-, so that the former, the reclaiming control fully, would come easier when it was time. And he would eventually take it back, Jarlaxle knew.
This would be perhaps the trickiest thing the drow had ever attempted, even given his years of serving fickle and volatile Matron Mothers. And it would be delicious.
And so he stood outside the room, listening patiently and silently at the wall for Entreri to quiet for the night so that the drow could steal into the assassin's room. Finally, when he had been quiet for a time, Jarlaxle took portable hole, swung it around a bit to stretch and elongate it, and slapped it on the wall outside Entreri's room, thus circumventing the door and the traps he knew the human would have in place there. Poking his head in, Jarlaxle looked around carefully to ensure the assassin truly slept, then stepped into his room as silently as only a drow could.
Artemis lay supine in his bed atop his covers with Idalia's flute held loosely in one relaxed hand and his jeweled dagger grasped more tightly in the other. Jarlaxle decided that he was not a moment too soon; the disheveled assassin had not even bothered to undress for bed, he wore the shadow of a few days growth at his chin as well, and the room itself was in disarray. That more than anything was telling to Jarlaxle of Artemis Entreri's state of mind.
Jarlaxle could not help but smirk, but it turned into a much more wolfish grin as his eyes strayed over the human's fine body around the teasing openings of his unbuttoned shirt; sun-darkened skin covering taut muscle, even with -maybe especially with- the grayish undertone it was beautiful to the drow, and wisps of dark hair at his chest and in a thin line descending from his navel, disappearing beneath the buttons of his breeches. Rather than being repulsed by the hair, as were most of his kin, Jarlaxle found himself fascinated by it. It gave humans -at least this human- an exotic quality. That last thought made Jarlaxle's mouth go dry suddenly as he was truly hit with the weight of his undertaking.
Jarlaxle was impressed then. The drow moved to step -had not even set his whole foot down on the floor- and the assassin shot up out of bed and into a defensive crouch, landing perfectly balanced on the balls of his feet and the pall of sleep immediately replaced by confusion and then a sheer, intense anger as he recognized the intruder.
Jarlaxle was unarmed, and had none of his usual adornments, not even the eye patch. Indeed, he wore nothing but his silken sleep pants and a smile it seemed, but not his usual disarming grin, Artemis noted. This smile was different, and the gleam in the mercenary's jewel-red eyes was different. It was... unsettling, and in a strange way. Lost as Artemis was at the moment, he knew he should be angry at the dark elf for a host of things, not the least of which being the interruption of his sleep. But that look... Entreri shook his head and stood straight, posturing as though he would confront the drow, throwing only the flute aside and starting forward with the dagger still in hand. Jarlaxle was already holding placating hands up before him.
“I know, I know. What in the Nine Hells do I think I am doing in here at this hour?” Jarlaxle's smile deepened, drawing the assassin's infamous scowl as he considered the drow, “I'm intervening, that's what. This moping confusion you have sported for days is not healthy, nor is it amusing in the slightest.”
“Not amusing.” Artemis repeated gravely, voice rough from sleep. He cleared his throat and continued, glaring harder, “Get out.”
Jarlaxle's features went from smiling to deadly calm impressively fast. That must be what his own cold stare looked like to others, Entreri thought with an inward roll of his eyes.
“You are disoriented within the swirl of long forgotten things,” Jarlaxle’s voice was the most somber the assassin had ever heard and it caught and held him rapt, “and you feel your precisely sharpened control slipping little by little like the sands of Calimport through your fingers. And there seems not a thing you can do about it.” The drow stepped forward slowly, not even a foot separating him from Artemis. Entreri knew he should draw his dagger, or at the very least step away but he felt rooted to the floor, unable to make his body respond. Knowing and doing seemed to be two different things for Artemis Entreri this night.
Jarlaxle's next words caused both anger and a strange -but not unpleasant- tremor within the assassin, “I would help you, Artemis.”
“With help like yours, Jarlaxle, I need not make enemies,” the assassin quipped coldly, but Jarlaxle's expression did not falter, “You want to help me... what? Regain myself? Sort through my troubles? You’ll forgive me if I reserve my doubts,” Entreri scoffed. If his words had hit a nerve the drow did not let on an inkling.
Jarlaxle's cool smile, his step closer -close enough that he could feel the others body heat, his very presence even, conveyed calm, easy dominion; something Entreri found himself keenly and intensely drawn to. The sneer on Entreri's face washed away in a flood of something that resembled a mix of hope and desire and scorn but Jarlaxle could not be sure since he had never before seen the former two emotions cross the assassin's features.
Jarlaxle answered, keeping his voice smooth and even, “Your control is leaving you whether you like it or not, and that is a feeling you are... unaccustomed to. You're off balance. And I am the one best suited to guide you through this. I know you better than you'd like to admit. And I know this predicament you face. And I know what you need.” Entreri's heartbeat quickened as Jarlaxle leaned in, moving his face beside the assassin's, still not touching his body. He was so very, very close though, and Entreri was so very, very conscious of him. The dagger!, something in the back of Entreri's mind screamed, Bring the damned dagger to bear! He did not move an inch except to dart his tongue out to wet his suddenly dry lips.
“Instead of clutching at fleeting control with a tightened fist, it is best to let it go altogether. Put it aside for a time to balance yourself. ” Jarlaxle's voice was naught but the breath of a whisper, and not even attempting to disguise the want it contained, “Give over that control. Entrust it to me.”
Artemis Entreri froze, stock still and bolt upright, like a frightened rothé too terrified to even run from its impending doom. Jarlaxle thought if he were to push the man over just then he would have fallen straight backward, so rigid was his posture.
How could he know? Entreri wondered. Even more puzzling; How could he understand? The assassin decided Kimmuriel Oblodra would be the next feast for his vampiric dagger. But it was more than that, he knew. Artemis had not spent much time among the drow, but the time he had spent there in Menzoberranzan had given him, among other things, a new and profound regard for Jarlaxle of Bregan D'aerthe. He was not just a fool in a silly hat after all, and his time in Jarlaxle's captive care had been unpleasant, but it could have been much, much worse. The assassin recognized Jarlaxle's direct influence in that fact.
The drow took a chance, lifting one hand slowly and stroking his fingertips gently across the assassin's shoulder under his shirt, ghosting his fingers between fabric and flesh. Entreri's skin shivered beneath the touch, then the rest of his body followed suit and he grabbed the slender wrist, pushing Jarlaxle back enough to face him with murderous intent burning in his slate gray eyes. Jarlaxle was not to be so easily deterred in this, having expected some severe reaction or other -so far he felt he was doing rather well considering he did not have a dagger at his throat- and he stared the assassin down; he saw beyond the loathing in those eyes a silent plea. The drow took another chance.
“I know that you desire me,” Artemis swallowed hard; Jarlaxle hid a smile and continued, “I have known it since you yourself discovered it, when you found yourself terribly outmatched and vulnerable at the mercy of Menzoberranzan,” Jarlaxle's whispered words widened the assassin's eyes almost imperceptibly and the dark elf knew he had hit the mark with the statement, “And there are reasons, other than your pleasant company of course, that I've remained at your side all this time.” Jarlaxle smirked, but his eyes darkened to smoldering coals at the admission, and he comprehended just then the depth and very real truth of that statement.
Artemis thought surely he was having a panic attack. His heart pounded furiously, and his thoughts refused to coalesce into anything decipherable with those striking blood-red eyes boring into his own -with the exception of thoughts surrounding the mercenary himself. And when Entreri rolled Jarlaxle's words around in his mind, when he studied them and all the wonderful and terrifying implications they contained, he was shocked that he only wanted more. Jarlaxle’s clean scent, his compelling eyes, the command in his demeanor, and the hypnotic cadence of his voice –a voice that reminded him of Idalia’s flute just then-, he craved it all. Then, unexpectedly and startling in their pull, there were the thoughts of succumbing; of actually heeding the drow's words and letting go of his control. Completely. Absolutely. Jarlaxle was right of course; Artemis knew he was slipping closer and closer to catastrophe. He had barely even registered the pscionicist's intrusion at first. It was so tiring holding onto it all after so long. That stupid flute had shown him just how tired he truly was. Could he? Just... let it go? Relinquishment? Submission?
“Let go of that burden. Just for a time,” Jarlaxle stepped back into the assassin as Artemis' grip on his wrist relaxed. The drow saw the thoughts playing out on the human's face, the conflict roiling behind those storm cloud eyes. Jarlaxle knew he was winning. “Let it go, Artemis.”
Jarlaxle could feel more than see it begin; he could sense the roots of the man's surrender take hold viscerally as surely as he would have felt an earthquake at that moment. Artemis' body relaxed slightly, his eyes lost their anger, his grip lost its menace and then his hand dropped to his side altogether.
A thrill filled the drow then that he had not felt in many, many years -pure, saturating lust- as he fell into his dominant role. He pushed closer to Entreri, aligning their bodies and pushing his growing erection into the man's hip, delighting in the sharp intake of breath. Jarlaxle wanted -terribly!- to hear the words though; there was no room for misunderstanding here.
“Say it, Artemis. Do you consent?” Jarlaxle could not keep the fervor from his voice.
“No,” was the knee-jerk growl from the assassin. Jarlaxle still did not falter, patient. And then, after a moment and a deep breath, “Yes,” came the whispered assent.
There was that plea again, Jarlaxle thought. It was all Jarlaxle could do not to smile, but he knew the spell would break if he did and so he turned it inward and stroked his hands down Entreri's arms, taking the dagger from the human's loose grip and putting it aside. Jarlaxle took hold of the assassin's wrists gently, but in no uncertain terms illustrating his own dominance.
The point of no return; Artemis Entreri nodded, yielding. Almost without hesitation. Jarlaxle drew back, and Artemis closed his eyes, awaiting whatever would come.
"Do not close your eyes to me, Artemis." The drow kept his tone stern but non-threatening; the desire there only thinly veiled by the control conveyed. Entreri's slate eyes opened, narrowed to a glare for just a moment, but he obeyed and did not close them again. "Good," Jarlaxle did smile then. A rare, genuine smile, Artemis noted.
In that acquiescence, a coil of his own control slipped, and Artemis felt his body and mind relaxing into the unfamiliar simplicity that came with being commanded. His sensibilities could not handle being a slave; this was somehow different. And Entreri found his attention drawn to the fact that his breeches were entirely too tight.
Jarlaxle's nimble fingers stroked over his skin just beneath the edges of his open shirt, dancing down his chest, over the ripples of his abdominal muscles. Artemis' muscles and skin quivered beneath the feathery touch and he sucked in another sharp breath, but did not protest. The drow stripped him slowly, deliberately, whispering touches and words, mostly Common, mingled with some Drow that could have been anything but sounded to Entreri like sin dripping from his onyx lips. Stitch after stitch fell away and Artemis Entreri was bared in all his shivering, aroused glory.
"I will take you slowly, push your limits gently. And I will not degrade you. Never, never that. You've trusted me with your life in the past. Trust me with this now.”
Artemis took a deep, settling breath that didn't help his nerves at all as Jarlaxle's nimble fingers traced down his own stomach to the belt of his own dark blue, silken sleep pants and let them float down to the floor. Artemis' eyes started to wander once, twice, taking in Jarlaxle's form, but kept snapping back up to the elf's face, inadvertently seeking permission; another bit of control slipping away. Jarlaxle smiled knowingly.
“You may look. Indeed, let your eyes roam, my friend,” Jarlaxle grinned and watched the wary uncertainty in the assassin's eyes replaced by torrid desire as they traveled down the drow's strong and sinuous body. Jarlaxle let him look for a moment before ebony fingertips began a delicate trail along the assassin's bared skin, down his chest to his sides and back along his hips, walking ever so slowly around Entreri until the drow was at his back.
Artemis stiffened again, and he seemed on the verge of fight or flight, which was fine, Jarlaxle thought. On edge was alright, falling over the precipice into panic was not.
Entreri's mind raced; He felt vulnerable suddenly. Had he been set up? Was Kimmuriel even now working some psionic trick on him? Was it all one giant betrayal for Jarlaxle's amusement? The heat of the drow leaning into his back both unnerved and excited him; was Jarlaxle reaching around with a blade?
“Trust me,” Jarlaxle whispered and Artemis felt the drow press harder against him, felt the power of him as his body and erection seared into the flesh of his back. Jarlaxle's breath was warm as his lips came close to the assassin's ear with the slowly whispered words, “I will not fail you.”
Entreri could have fought, objected, said any word at all, and Jarlaxle would have stopped. Artemis would not stop him. Jarlaxle knew it.
Entreri knew it just as well. The assassin relaxed again and felt another manacle of his control fall away. Entreri needed this, needed it more than he had ever hoped to realize. He felt himself fall into Jarlaxle's will, and he felt as though he were watching it all from a scrying pool behind his own eyes. Jarlaxle was kissing him as his hands roamed over the assassin's body, heated lips and tongue tasting his neck and shoulder, scraping his teeth across the tender flesh there hard enough to break a gasp from Entreri's throat.
“Jar-” the assassin started but the mercenary in question cut him off abruptly.
“Quiet,” the word was roughened by the need building in the dark elf's sonorous voice, “Just feel.”
Artemis felt the elf's smile on his skin, and visualizing that smile made his stomach lurch as Jarlaxle's warm hands roamed over the cool, naked expanse of his back, kneading gently at the taut muscles there. He traced his fingers across the silken skin of the assassin's many scars and couldn't help but notice how delightfully his thumbs fit into the dimples just above Entreri's perfect ass. The assassin shivered, letting out a harsh little breath as Jarlaxle clutched at his hips with a possessive vehemence, digging his fingertips into the skin there and pulling Entreri fully back against him again, grinding his erection into the man's buttock. The drow's fingertips relaxed after a moment, ghosting across the assassin's hips and up his sides to lay his palms flat on the human's chest as the drow scraped his teeth along his ear.
“Relax, Artemis.” The command was just that, a command. Not harsh, not loud; it needn't be. Entreri obeyed, letting out the breath he had apparently been holding. He was not used to being touched, not like this, and he was out of his comfort zone so completely that he was not even sure he could find his way back without a map. But, oh, the things this drow was doing to him. He moaned softly in spite of himself and leaned back into the dark elf's body as the deceptively delicate fingers hovered teasingly down around his hips. Again Artemis could feel the mercenary smile against his neck.
“Where is your oil, Artemis?” Entreri could hear the raw timbre that had invaded Jarlaxle's voice behind him, but the ragged breathing and the throbbing pulse of the inky member against his ass were no less telling of the drow's desire. The question almost didn't make sense to Entreri's hazed mind, and the assassin stammered for a moment. “Oh don't be coy. I've heard you,” ebony fingers roamed dangerously close to his erection and the delicious friction contrasted the dulcet voice in his ear, “I've heard you pleasure yourself, alone, when you think no one is paying attention. Now tell me where you keep your oil.”
Artemis swallowed. “Nightstand, second drawer.” Entreri hated the quaver in his voice.
“Good. Don't. Move,” Jarlaxle commanded, placing another tiny bite to the assassin's shoulder before dancing to the nightstand. Funny, Entreri thought, he hadn't really considered moving even before the mercenary had commanded him. The drow found the phial in no time, standing before the assassin once again as he pulled the cork with a soft 'pop'. Jarlaxle smiled wickedly at the burn of desire in the assassin's dark eyes, and Entreri swallowed hard again as the mercenary made a show of pouring the oil into his palm.
As Jarlaxle's oil-slickened hand wrapped around Entreri's pulsing member, the assassin let out a strangled sound between a gasp and a groan at the contact as the drow began to stroke him with slender, nimble fingers. The pleasure that rent through his blood nearly knocked him from his feet, so sweet was it. As the thrill enfolded him he fell to his knees on the bed -or had Jarlaxle guided him? He couldn't be sure- and the drow let him down, settling close against his back once more. Artemis felt a gentle hand at his lower back, pushing gently so that he would lean forward and he did mindlessly. Truth be told, Artemis could have fallen out a window at that moment and not cared so long as Jarlaxle's hands did not come away from his flesh. He distantly felt the drow's mouth on the skin at the back of his neck, but it was a vague impression compared to the touch of Jarlaxle's hands. Each caress of ebony fingers, from the very tip of him, slowly, all the way back along his thick shaft, sent a new burst of ecstasy through Entreri. Distracted so, the assassin barely realized that Jarlaxle was pressing an oiled finger into his body, then another, stretching him.
Somewhere, a tiny voice within Entreri's hazy mind was screaming at him that this was too much, that it was going too far, that he would not be able to come back from this. But as Jarlaxle's fingers slid around him and into him, and found that sweet spot inside him, all thought was obliterated by pounding, screaming need. His hips bucked forcefully, wanting more, needing more.
Jarlaxle growled deeply against Artemis' neck and suddenly bit his shoulder hard, startling a gasp from the assassin as the pain from the bite rushed along his spine to mingle with the pleasure of the drow's still stroking hand and delving fingers.
“Do not move, I said,” Jarlaxle ground out. Artemis obeyed, stilling his hips and he melted back against the drow's body bonelessly, though Jarlaxle could feel the restraint quivering in the assassin's muscles. Jarlaxle had not anticipated such a tremendous reaction from the man, and the overwhelming effects had gone to his head somewhat like strong elven wine. Artemis was just so beautiful like this; so yielding and pliant and aroused. It was intoxicating to see, to smell the lust oozing off of him. It was delicious, more so than Jarlaxle had even supposed. The dark elf traced his tongue along the side of Artemis' neck, from the welts of the bite mark all the way behind his ear, causing a shudder to course along the assassin's body and almost making him buck again. Almost.
Jarlaxle moved back for a moment, urging Artemis forward just a little more, his thighs apart just a little wider, to press his oiled, coal black member against Entreri's opening.
“Brace, Artemis,” was all the warning the assassin received before Jarlaxle buried within him in one powerful thrust, forcing a cry from Entreri's lips as he resisted for a moment against the pain and pressure.
Something sinister rose from somewhere deep, deep within Jarlaxle Baenre then. Something calling for violence and pain and humiliation as the sensation of Entreri’s struggling, halfhearted though it was, engulfed him along with the heat and tightness of the other man. The drow recoiled against that intrinsic darkness, subduing it with effort. That was not him, he reminded himself, it was simply the fabric of his race rearing its ugly head; the lingering heritage of centuries among evils that had tainted him. Losing control of that would only break them both. Coming back to himself, he instead whispered soft words into the assassin's ear and caressed his hips and back gently to soothe him until Entreri’s agitation turned to pleasured writhing once more.
Artemis was prepared for cruelty, for hips slamming violently against him with no regard to his comfort, let alone pleasure; though he had to admit Jarlaxle had shown care in his domination thus far. Artemis braced again as he felt Jarlaxle move behind and within him, preparing for the pain and ready to accept it as his penance. As it had always been. Jarlaxle adjusted the angle of his hips as he withdrew slowly, and instead of slamming back home, he pushed almost leisurely, his gentle thrust causing ripples of pleasure to shudder through the assassin, and consequently through the drow. Artemis kept waiting for brutality that never came, and before he realized what was happening, Jarlaxle had worked him into a mindlessly erotic pyre of pleasure with his slow, easy strokes.
“Ah... Artemis...” Jarlaxle's voice was strained and sultry as he reverted to his native language a bit in his own euphoria, “Dos satiir... sss... ssin'urn.”
The languorous rocking of the mercenary's hips, the melodic litany of drow words that fell to Entreri's ears with each thrust, words like 'llieh' and 'zuul'raght' and 'nindel's ol' -Entreri did not need a translator to understand the connotation behind them-, the sweep of carnal rapture that pervaded his body and mind; Artemis had not been prepared for this.
Jarlaxle shifted again, pulling the assassin closer, and Artemis melted back against him, relishing the grounding sensation of Jarlaxle moving beneath and behind him. Some irrational fear of falling from the face or Toril had lodged itself within his mind. One dark hand braced Artemis' hip, the other moved around the front of him to once again encircle his member and begin caressing him with the same rhythm of the hips, adding yet another layer of ecstasy. Jarlaxle kept him balanced on the perfect edge of oblivion until Entreri could take no more.
“Gods... too... too much!” he didn't even care that his voice was stained with wanton need, that his words came much too close to supplication for his rational liking, but he was far from rational at the moment.
Entreri heard the drow behind him grunt, and his strokes became more urgent, his breathing more ragged. His voice was nothing but a jagged, guttural snarl, “Artemis, xun naut tlu k'jakr. Move. Now!”
The assassin's body snapped into motion at the command as he felt Jarlaxle's body fall into the frenzied throes of his climax, hips thrusting hard and fast and hysterical. Grinding between Jarlaxle's hand and hips, he felt the surging heat of the drow's eruption within him. Entreri came in a broken cry as he spilled over the ebony hand, finally able to release the incredible tension the drow had been building within him from the beginning. Artemis Entreri had never been able to describe anything he'd ever felt as beautiful. This, however, was beyond it. Somewhere in his subconscious mind, and just for a heartbeat, Entreri was aware of hot streams pouring from his eyes as he collapsed into the bed with the drow atop him, both heaving for breath and trembling violently as the aftershocks rolled through them.
Artemis could not be sure how long they lay like that. At some point Jarlaxle had moved to the side, but had left his arm draped around the assassin's torso, and so they lay in a comfortably surreal silence.
Entreri felt sated, deeply and thoroughly, and beneath that there was an emptiness. No, not empty. Free? No, that wasn't it either because he could still feel the burden of his decades like a stone in his thoughts. He felt strangely detached from it all now though, and the things illuminated by Idalia's flute floated unhindered through his mind like so many plumes of thistledown on the wind. The assassin shook his head internally, unsure where his mind was and what would become of him now, but feeling the arm around him and the warmth of the mercenary's body touching him were a comfort and that was something, though he would never openly admit it. He almost smiled at the irony of that after what he'd just experienced with the drow that still lay beside him. Speaking of...
“Jarlaxle.”
“Hmm?” game the muffled, groggy reply.
“I will have it back eventually.”
The drow took a moment and a sigh before answering. “I know, my friend. I know.”
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