The room that Zevran leads Zak to, number 715, is much like the Antivan himself. Small, neat, clean, yet cheerful in its own way and a far cry from the rooms he keeps in Antiva City. Those are nothing more than a place to stay and a place to work, a place to keep the more sinister tools of his profession, not a place to really share with others.
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"Certainly you may use it, if you like," he says. "You will find soap and towels nearby, and you are welcome to borrow clothing if you wish, though..." Zevran arches an eyebrow as he looks Zak over from head to toe, before searching out the largest tunic and pair of leggings that he has. "I am afraid that it might be on the small side, for you."
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The clothing Zevran offered him surprised the drow yet again, and he looked at the shorter elf with complete puzzlement before choosing his words carefully, "I had planned to wash my own clothing, and had not expected your offer but I am grateful for your assistance and your offer of clothing."
Tomorrow, Zak decided fervently, he would change the insignia at the bar. Before he could dig himself even deeper into debt.
Zaknafein then went to explore this place's bathing facilities, closing, and if possible, locking the door behind him, the clothing still in hand.
He laid the clothing off to one side, where it would not get wet, stripped off his own spidersilk clothes and then stared in utter dismay at the lack of water in the tub. The drow did notice the knobs and cautiously fiddled with the strange objects, startled as the water poured out.
...This was strange magic. Very strange. One of the knobs ensured the strange spigot poured ( ... )
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By the time the drow has finished bathing, the assassin has lifted the wine down from the fire and is kneeling at the hearth, straining it through a fine cloth into a heavy, glazed clay pitcher. He's humming quietly to himself as he works, a pleasant little melody, and once he has the spices strained out, he adds honey from a small container to the wine and stirs it until it's well mixed.
Then he gets back to his feet and brings the pitcher with him, setting it on the room's dresser--definitely not on his work table, given some of the things on it. A quick look in the storage chest yields two mugs, plain but heavy and serviceable, and Zevran sets these out next to the pitcher ( ... )
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The wet clothes would have clung to him anyway, would have chilled his skin, and he prefers to be dry, which tips the balance in favor of the slightly too tight clothing he borrowed from the other male.
The drow folded the wet clothes up, cleaned after himself as best as he could, and then unlocked and opened the door.
He was made marginally more comfortable and rather fascinated by the scent of the spiced wine, unfamiliar and sweet.
"I'm done with the bath." The drow stated cautiously, feeling uncomfortably exposed, as he left the bathroom and went to clean and organize his armor and his other belongings, as quietly as possible.
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At least the tunic is a long one, if only for Zak's sake.
"Ah, that is good. Come, have some of this while it is still hot." Zevran pours a healthy measure of the drink into one of the mugs and offers it to Zak. He takes a sip before he does so, however. It's not an uncommon custom in Antiva, a country that's crawling with assassins, to prove that a host isn't offering anything... impolite, to a guest.
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Zaknafein understood the concept and appreciated the sentiment,though in the Underdark, one tended to cast 'detect poison' spells on everything instead, since someone might have drunk an antidote potion beforehand.
"Thank you." The drow said quietly, leaving his items as they were and taking the mug in hand. The wine was good. Very good. Definitely better than Morimatra*.
"This is delicious."
*The drow equivalent of spiced wine. Dark in color, the flavor is harsh, strong and biting.
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"Surface wines are much better, really. But that tends to be expensive to get, far beyond the means of someone not a really rich noble, partly because surface merchants don't want to come to the Underdark often enough to trade, when at any moment, the Matrons could suddenly decide they want to have them tugged in and tortured... and partly because surface raids, which would be the only other means of acquiring something without a merchant, are rare ( ... )
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The drow contemplated his glass for a moment. "Do these wine-making families attempt to exterminate these interlopers to the last child? Just asking." The drow thought the obsession with status seemed very much like a drow noble family, or a strong merchant clan. Except Zak hoped the children were left out of the feuds, at least.
"Your land's wines must be very good then... What I had earlier was considered a sacred wine to the surface elves of my home world. Very hard to brew, very highly valued." The drow flashed Zevran a slightly wicked smile. "It takes 420 years to age to its full strength. If the Bar takes it from someone's established supplies, then I suppose that somewhere out there, a surface elf is bewailing the loss of his precious ritual's focus. If so, then I am doubly pleased."
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Zaknafein contemplated his wine gloomily. "The winner of the conflict takes in the loot, the remaining commoner soldiers and mages of the fallen House. Should any nobles of the fallen House survive, the aggressor House is also murdered to the last infant. House Do'Urden rose in rank rather quickly when I was in charge of its armed forces." He refers to this obliquely at first. Then he reluctantly elaborates.
"I enjoyed killing their clerics and their Matrons, but the slaying of children was never something I could do, or stomach. I am very glad the people of your country are more... merciful as to offer warnings or absorb the other family in a more peaceful manner. Or at least they have the decency to discriminate ( ... )
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