[OOM] Settling In
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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Zaknafein's own room at home had been next to the training hall and tactics room. It had been dark, lit by a charmed ceramic globe, with a large bed and and a small desk. Like the rest of the house, its walls and furniture had been carved to be elegant, probably by slaves. It hadn't been much of a sanctuary.
"Wine would be good." Zaknafein agreed, as he followed Zevran's lead and began to remove his sheathed weapons and his whip, placing them where he could get to them easily, then removing belts and the mithril and adamantite armor. "Thank you."
There is a moment of hidden internal struggle with inherent drow paranoia before the drow shrugs slightly, decides to trust his companion all the way and begins to pull out the other hidden weapons. What can it hurt? After all, he's already dead and his companion has nothing to gain from harming him.
One of weapons must have been the smallest crossbow in the world. A set of matching crossbow bolts followed, poisoned darts, some hidden knives from his boots and other places the drow could easily reach. And a belt with many vials and pouches. Some of which may have held poisons, healing potions and a flashbomb or two.
Soon the drow is left in his spider silk tunic, his leggings of the same material and his boots.
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The other bracer soon follows the first, followed by the quilted padding he wears around his forearms beneath them, and the half-fingered gloves beneath those. Then come the elbow cops, and it's when he's working on the pauldrons that Zevran notices the rapidly growing pile for the drow's equipment.
Then he laughs softly and unbuckles his cuirass, wriggling out of it and setting it aside. "Prepared for every eventuality, I see," he notes. He himself is left in just his boots, smallclothes, and the skirt of leather strips and panels around his hips. He brushes the latter aside and begins to unstrap his own concealed arsenal from his thighs, vials of poisons, a small dagger or two, a thin pouch containing little twists of waxed paper with decidedly deadly contents. A set of small throwing knives is bound around one upper arm, a selection of darts and a small blowpipe to the other.
A set of long, slim blades is pulled from his boots before he removes the footwear as well, and Zevran even has to feel delicately around in his braids to pull out long bits of slim wire and what looks like a needle; the wax coating one end suggests that it's for something more sinister than sewing. Then the Antivan unbuckles the skirt and tosses it aside, pulling more wire, this time coiled up, from beneath the hip ties of one side of his smallclothes, and a set of lock picks from under the other. Only then does he stand up and cross to a wardrobe to pull out a tunic, a bright and cheerful sky blue, which he pulls on over his head to cover a strong body wrapped in bronze skin and elegant black tattoos--though he's only bothering for Zak's sake.
"I will see to the wine, then." The bench of a window seat lifts to reveal a storage chest beneath, from which Zevran pulls a small bag, a cooking pot, and a bottle of wine. The pot is made of steel rather than iron and is reserved specifically for preparing wine; even the poorest alienage family probably has such a thing, in Antiva. The elf kneels down before the fireplace and uncorks the bottle, mixing the wine with what looks--and smells--like mixed spices from the bag. Then he hangs the pot on a hook over the low flames and coals, where it will heat and simmer but not boil.
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"These are adequate for a patrol." he stated calmly, keeping his eyes averted from Zevran's form when the other elf was all but naked. The drow cast a curious glance at Zevran's own pile of killing implements, impressed by the facility the other male had in concealing them. The drow was now fairly sure that his new companion had to be an accomplished poisoner, given what he could see on that pile. The drow was now glad he had another way to pay Zevran back. Zak had never heard of a poison-maker who wasn't curious about the poisons coming from other lands. And many drow poisons which he had with him in the belt pouches and some of the vials were both rare and rather.. gruesome.
"You have a rather impressive array as well." he complimented Zevran cautiously.
For now, Zak is fairly sure he may still have a hint of the scent of his own blood on his skin from his recent demise. He may as well get rid of that, and he will likely need to wash his own clothes as well, since he will be here for quite a long time, and he only has these until tomorrow. "Would you mind if I used the bath?" he asked Zevran, once the other male had the tunic on.
Zak found the spices his new companion used to prepare the wine fascinating, since they didn't have any spices in the Underdark to begin with, These smelt absolutely intoxicating.
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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 hot water, while the other poured cold.
Zaknafein used the knobs to turn off the spigot as soon as the tub was full and the water was the correct temperature. Then, he bathed. Once he was clean, the drow then washed his previously worn clothing, and wrung them as dry as possible, laying them on another clean dry surface and dried himself before trying on the recently lent items.
The Antivan was right... The tunic and leggings clung to him more than he was comfortable with and were a little short.
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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. He'll wait until Zak emerges to pour, lest the drink cool off.
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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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There are also no "detect poison" spells, and even if there were, only mages would be able to cast them. Magic, after all, requires a connection to the Fade, and only mages can tap it on command--the upshot of their "condition," the downside being that very same connection makes them perfect and accessible targets for demonic possession.
"I am glad that you enjoy it," the Antivan replies, and moves his gear from the bed before he picks up his own mug. "We generally drink our wine unadulterated, or perhaps cut with water if it is particularly strong. Drinks such as this one tend to be more for ceremonial and religious purposes, though they certainly have their merits outside of such circumstances. Those rare cold nights, for instance, and when one is sick they can be most fortifying if spiked with brandy."
Zevran suspects he may have spent quite a large portion of that illness last winter drunk, though he had been so out of it anyway that it could have been completely unrelated to the alcohol.
"I am going to assume that you do not have grapes, where you come from. They require a particular environment to truly do well, including sunlight."
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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."
Zaknafein may have spent most of his evenings after a particularly bad day's events drunk and relying on Jarlaxle for safety. After he and the mercenary parted ways, Zak had stuck strictly to sobriety, to prevent any assassination attempts from coming through.
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"Antiva is wine country, though Orlais and Rivain also have their own notable vineyards. An established winemaking family commands a great deal of wealth and power, and there are always lesser families looking to make their own mark and rise in status. I cannot complain, of course, it means more contracts in the long run." Zevran takes a sip of his own drink and then looks down into his mug thoughtfully. "There are other drinks as well, of course. Beer and the like, and of course there is foreign stuff to be had from the trading ships. But no country does wine like Antiva. What you had earlier was actually more similar to our whites, or a very dry red."
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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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The Crows are in a unique position, one that Zevran can certainly appreciate. Even if they murder someone of one family, that family is not hesitant about hiring the Crows to return the favor. Assassins are impartial, after all, working for money rather than personal passions, though many do enjoy their job. If a Crow kills someone, then it was because they were paid to do so, not because they bear a personal grudge--and they will be more than willing to turn around and kill the one who just paid off their contract, for the right price.
Gold, and the greed for it, are far simpler and purer motives than ones of the heart.
"As for the wines, well. There are good and bad, the same as everything else. True, the established families with the land and the money, and the equipment and the labor and the knowledge, tend to produce the best. But there are some smaller vineyards that also do very good work, too small to really be seen as a threat and often sought after by the larger families. If they can acquire the smaller vineyard, then everyone benefits--the smaller family gains money and the prestige and protection of the larger, and the larger gains a good product, knowledge of how to make it, and profit."
He grins. "And the Crows reap the rewards of the anger felt by the wolves that jumped too slowly for the prey, no?"
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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."
(OOC: ZAKNAFEIN APPROVES OF YOUR CROWS +20.)
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The Antivan plops down onto the bed, sinking back among the pillows on one side and looking all together comfortable and at home. "One could not blame you, for enjoying such. There are a few masters that I would gladly dispense with, though of course it would not benefit me at all to do so, and so I do not." He shrugs. "In any case, for us at least, there is little to be gained by killing a child, but much to be gained by leaving them alive. Those who do manage not to get consumed by a rival, well. They tend to be very upset when they come of age, and are often quite happy to pay any amount to avenge their parents. And if they do get consumed, then they either use us to fight back against those who acquired them, or use us to protect their new family. Any way the cards fall, the Crows win."
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