First Entrance
The faint sound of chanting that is in the background has a frantic note to it and there is the scent of blood, sulfur and musty sickly-sweet incense that fades into nothingness when the sound dissipates. Somewhere out there, four priestesses assume that their offering was accepted; and a dark goddess assumes her traitorous prey is in the hands of
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The elf passed out on the floor receives a couple minutes of steady attention, before Zevran sets aside his tools and materials. Then he jumps, landing lightly and surprisingly quietly, a reasonable distance from the drow. The man is already in for enough of a shock. It seems unfair, to threaten him with the prospect of having his head crushed, too. Zevran walks over to the prone figure and stands at his head, arms folded over his armored chest, and looks down at him.
Zak may well notice his presence first as a shadow coming between his eyes and the blinding light. Given that Zevran looks like he does--blond, comparatively light-skinned, with bright hazel eyes that are decidedly free of any strange glow--that may not be much of a comfort. Especially given that the Antivan is conspicuously armed, wearing armor, and grinning broadly.
"Well, that depends on what your definition of 'hell' is, yes?"
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Blonde, pointy-eared, bronze skinned... Eyes that are brown, but could pass for gold in the right light...There is only one kind of elf with that coloring in the Realms.
A sun elf. A member of the race Zak knows hates his own, kills his own on sight.
Zaknafein is doomed.
"...I'm being blinded and about to be carved up like a roast rothe by a sun elf. Yes. This must be the hells."
Well, he is dead, he knows it, the last thing he remembers is having his heart ripped out by his ex-wife literally...What else could it be?
The drow closes his eyes and waits in resignation and exhaustion for the inevitable stabbing pain he is sure will follow.
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"'Sun elf?' Oh, I do like the sound of that. It sounds so regal, don't you think?" He crouches down, balancing easily on his toes and folding his arms across his bent knees. He doesn't seem to be going for his blades, at least, and while the new position brings him closer to Zak's face, which is probably not the most comfortable set of circumstances for the drow, Zevran also ends up blocking out more of the light.
"But, as attractive as the title is, I am regrettably unfamiliar with it and therefore probably not such a being. Nor do I have any intentions of hurting you. Even if I wished to do so, and I do not know why I would, it would be quite inadvisable to do so here."
Wherever "here" happens to be. The noise, chatter, and the smells of food and drink suggest somewhere far more akin to Valhalla than they do any sort of hell, however.
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But the strange elf's next words are shocking. He's unfamiliar with the term? Maybe this isn't the afterlife. Or at least, not the Faerun equivalent.
It does seem unlike any afterlife Zak's ever been told about. He lets his eyes adjust a bit more to the bright light, squinting as he looks around.
Tables, chairs, people chatting, bright lights, cooking food, the tinkling of liquids being poured into glasses.. Seemingly just a strangely furnished and equipped bar...
No hellfire. No sulfur. No hellhounds or demons; no imps, no Yochlols... No Lolth. No looming surface elf deities ready to disapprove and cast him into a pit.
Just the smell of strange food, the sounds of chatter, and people having a relatively good time. And an elf who looks as puzzled as he does, though far more comfortable.
The drow gives the other elf a confused look.
"No Yochlols. No demons. No angry ghosts... This is the strangest place I have ever been and not like any afterlife I have ever heard of. I had thought that bitch-goddess,Lolth, would have had me slow roasted or skewered by now."
He moves slightly away from the other elf as best he can, and surreptitiously looks around for his blades.
At least they're within arm's reach, though he's pretty much at the other elf's mercy right now.
"If you're not a sun elf, then what are you?" If the drow sounds lost, if he looks confused, it is because he is. As lost as a traveler, without a map or lights to work with, in the caverns.
"I've never heard of an elf with your coloring on Faerun who hasn't tried to kill one of my kind on sight. And why is it inadvisable for you to do so here? Is there some sort of clerical spell on this place, to put penalties on such attacks? What is this place?"
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Zevran has not survived over a decade of Crow training and activity by being oblivious to what those around him are doing. He picks up one of the sheathed scimitars and holds it out to the other elf, hilt first, though he doesn't stop answering the drow's questions. Surely no enemy who intended combat would see fit to arm his opponent first, at least not if he were a rogue or anything other than hopelessly honorable.
"As for what I am, well. An elf, as you can see, pointed ears and all. But, there are elves from many different worlds here. You, I suspect, are from a different one than my own." He brushes a bit of dust from one bracer. "Judging from your concern about the afterlife, I am going to assume that you are dead. It matters little here, in truth, save that the door you just came through probably will not reappear--it is my understanding that the dead can rarely go back to their own worlds."
The Antivan glances around them. "This is Milliways, the bar at the end of the universe. There are few rules, but one of them is that you do not cause harm to other patrons within the premises. There is no spell to prohibit such, but I do hear that the jail is impossible to escape from." Zevran grins again. "There are also much more comfortable places to converse than the floor, if you wish."
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The drow gratefully takes his weapon back, and warily gets up to his feet with the grace of a panther, before retrieving his second blade. The lack of tentacled monsters helps to settle him somewhat, though the drow is once more on edge once the other elf says that gods and goddesses can come here.
"Deities come here?" He asks, and the drow's normally melodious voice cracks just slightly, as he puts the sheathed blades in their accustomed places on his belts. His voice is slightly plaintive, his crimson eyes, wide in horror. Clearly he doesn't want to run into anything like that.
The rule that the strange surface elf tells him about, the one that says no patron can do harm to another is more comforting, though he has doubts about the strength of their jail. Still, the feel of his weapons in their accustomed places, the weight of his armor are reassuring to the drow.
Useless if Lolth truly comes, but oddly reassuring. He is used to living in this armor, and it had been a strange sensation to die without it.
"I do not know if you are right about the Jail holding deities, but I certainly hope you are." he admits. "I am not and have never been on good terms with the goddess of my people and I wish to avoid her at all costs."
The drow is tall, and proportionately well-built for his own kind, graceful, fine-featured. Like most of his kind, he is handsome, has the race's dexterous long fingered hands, lithe frame, the commonly seen red eyes, white hair, and lustrous black skin. Part of his hair is held up in a ponytail, the rest of the stark white locks fall free over his shoulders and partly down his back.
Everything about him says he is a well trained warrior, especially with the weapons and armor he wears, shining, well-kept black and silver. But with the innate caution he displays, there is also the sense that this male has been beaten down by fate too many times. There is a sort of wary resignation about him, perhaps in the set of the shoulders, in the way he looks around himself, lost and bewildered utterly; trying to familiarize himself with this place.
It would remind a surfacer of a street dog, a stray kicked or hit so many times that it flinches at the sight of a man raising his hand. He looks for shadows to hide in, like a man with everything to lose.
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Zevran looks a bit surprised when Zak stands up. He's used to having to look up at other people, even other elves, but not that far. It is not the skin, hair, or eyes that get the Antivan's principle attention--though he has to admit that the complete package is very nice, and worth pursuing at some point--but the drow's height.
There's also that lost and bewildered look, downtrodden, one that Zevran is far more used to seeing on elves from his own world who are completely bound by a human master. On one of his own kind it would be somewhat pathetic, the useless gesture of someone who could not make the effort to free themselves. But Zak is very clearly a warrior, and in Zevran's experience, warriors do not tend to look like beaten elflings.
"Come, we can find a table toward the back," he says. He leaves his caltrops where they are in the rafters and begins leading Zak toward a more dimly lit section of the bar; he didn't miss how the light had seemed to cause the new arrival pain. Once they reach a comfortable booth, Zevran sits down and gestures that Zaknafein should seat himself as well. He makes certain that Zak gets the seat facing the largest area of the bar. The Antivan is used to this place, after all, but the drow is not and looks to be the sort who would rather keep his eyes open.
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He is very grateful, and more than anything else, this predisposes the lost drow to be more open than he would normally be in other settings.
There is a moment's silence as he gauges how much information he can share with the strange elf. He decides to lay most of his cards for this hand on the table. After all, he is lost and already at this elf's mercy, information-wise.
"You are right." Zak admitted softly, having made a decision. "I am dead, I think, because the last thing I remember was my Matron... I think in surface terms you would call her my wife? Ripping my heart out with a sacrificial knife."
It takes him a few moments to reconcile himself with the differences from what he left and where he is now. If most of the elves from wherever on the surface Zevran comes are so considerate, Zak would have to reconfigure his entire system of beliefs about the surface.
It is probably not as terrible as the priestesses warned him of...
Although that is not much of a stretch, Zak thinks resentfully, for they seem to be vicious liars. He would not have put it past them to lie to entire generations of male drow to prevent them from escaping Lolth's control and thus the priestesses' own.
" As for what world I am from... I am from Faerun. From the drow city of Menzoberranzan in the Underdark to be precise. There are many races of elves that live in Faerun...
I am a drow, a dark elf. My race lives in caverns.
You somewhat resemble one of the surface elf races in your coloring. One of the..." The drow makes a slight sound of distaste or discomfort. "noble or high elven races. They call themselves sun elves and consider my race an abomination; there is a perpetual blood feud between both races, and so I was fully expecting you to kill me the moment we saw each other."
The drow contemplates his next words.
"If it is true I may never return to Menzoberranzan, I would be well pleased."
As long as he could not return, the priestesses must think he died. He could only hope he left a corpse, but given his memories of his own demise were clear, he suspected they would believe him dead even without one. He had bled all over them rather messily, after all.
"My name is Zaknafein Do'Urden, formerly weapons master and patron of the House Do'Urden, the ninth Noble House of the city."
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Zevran shucks off the strapping that holds his daggers to his back and sets it aside so that he can recline in the seat more comfortably. He doesn't sit so much as he lounges and drapes himself over the furniture, a picture of relaxation and contentment.
"Hmm, I have not heard of your world. I am from Thedas, where we have but one race of elves and we are all generally looked down upon, no matter what color we happen to be. Except in Rivain, of course, where everyone somehow manages to get along. I myself am from Antiva City, in the country of Antiva, the most beautiful place in all of Thedas. Though the Orlesians would contest that, no doubt."
He grins. "Well, Zaknafein. I am Zevran Arainai, murderer, assassin, thief, rogue, bastard, whoreson. All of these I have been called and all of these I am, so take your pick. You may call me Zev, however, if you wish."
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The way Zevran is relaxed as he describes himself, the grin and the way he is draped over the seat is oddly comforting, even if the words themselves are not.
Perhaps it is because Zak is not used to meeting many people who are so seemingly at ease with themselves, who describe themselves with such honesty and whose smiles that are not born of satisfaction over a kill or the suffering of another individual or a sudden rise in rank. Such people are rare where he comes from. (Case in point, the only others he knows to act so at ease, being Jarlaxle and Drizzt.)
The strange elf's nonchalance and ease in his surroundings, his seeming lack of desire to do people harm (at the moment), are very comforting though it will take further acquaintance with him, before Zak can fully relax around him.. Or anyone really.
The drow raises his eyebrows in curiosity when the strange new elf speaks about his city, and his homeland.
The description of Thedas is strange to the drow, used to so many elven races and their sub-variants; the idea elves are looked down on is not particularly appealing, even though learning about this strange world Zevran is from is interesting. Especially with the obvious love and pride the strange elf displayed for his home, something Zak himself had little of.
"I have never heard of your world either, but it seems interesting. And calling you by your name seems preferable." Zak agrees mildly, now curious about both his booth-mate and the Bar they are in, but not quite willing to risk reprisal on the former issue.
"You said this bar has some rules that not even deities can go against, yes? What would these rules be?"
Zak has no intention of being evicted from the Bar, when the alternatives might involve being tossed to the Yochlols.
"And, ah.. to clarify my previous statements, a Yochlol is a tentacled demon that looks as if it is made of melted wax." He ventures cautiously. "It is a servant of Lolth, the deity I am... avoiding."
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"And the rules, ah yes. We cannot have a place where there is more than one person without rules to keep people from killing each other, no? You do not bring personal business here, meaning that if your most hated enemy were to saunter through that door this moment, hellbent on doing gruesome things to you, they may not do so. And you may not do anything to them. Likewise, there is no violence permitted, though sparring and such is acceptable out by the lake. I have not had cause, to investigate any self-defense clauses. And then, there is no nudity or sexual behavior allowed downstairs, which makes me wonder what most of these people do for fun while they are here." He grins, the expression heavy-lidded and heated. "Upstairs, of course, you may do as you wish."
A luxurious stretch, and another grin. It seems like Zevran spends a great deal of his time smiling.
"And the first drink is free, of course. To help with the shock. Something to eat may help, also. If you do not have money, and the bar takes every form of currency, then you may run a tab until such time as you are able to pay or can find employment. I believe they are especially forgiving of those who are unable to return home."
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Eyes alight with amusement, he pointed out. "Well, generally they tend to be humongous, the height of a female at least, so I doubt this plague of yours caused you to spawn any." he sobered slightly. "Though I am.. pleased you survived this plague. Such a thing is rather.. worrying. Are they common where you come from?" he asked curiously.
"These rules seem very good to me,since it is likely I would be the one seeking sanctuary under them." Zak agreed, more at ease now.
The drow raised an eyebrow in surprise at Zevran's sensual expression, given that he'd not expected a surface elf not to kill any drow on sight, having that same elf direct an expression that was lustful at the aforementioned drow instead was even more unlikely. And yet it was happening to him right now.
The drow was puzzled, intrigued in spite of himself by the way the conversation had gone..Especially since the one seemingly offering such a distraction was so fair. But Zak still remained wary, since he hadn't anticipated it, and because he had just left a horrible relationship. The drow was not eager to jump into anyone's bed, no matter how attractive and friendly they seemed to be.
"Perhaps they acclimate themselves to the surroundings." he suggested neutrally. "Or try to learn more about those around them?"
A moment's pause as he considered the other elf's words. "The free drink sounds good. I think I will need it to settle my nerves. Though if I am to stay here from now on, then I suppose I should look over my finances and how to make my way in this world, first." He murmured. "After all, I have nowhere else to go, as of yet. And no other options."
Zak had only ten silver coins in his pouch. If this afterlife had to be paid for, given it could last for eternity... The drow reluctantly admitted, he was screwed.
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The elf looks contemplative for a moment, and then shrugs. "I suppose it is certainly possible, though one can only watch people for so long. At least, in a place such as this, where the usual reasons for paying such rapt attention are frowned upon. But there are certainly those who are worth speaking to, and I do encourage you to learn who you will be seeing around from now on."
He spends a bit more time thinking, before he speaks again. "If you wish, you may use my rooms until you obtain your own. I do not stay overnight too often." It's a generous offer, certainly, especially to one Zevran hardly knows. At the same time, it's an extremely low-risk offer as well--the Antivan does not have anything at Milliways that cannot be replaced, or which must be kept secret--and has the added bonus, hopefully, of netting him a potential ally.
"But come! For now, we will drink. The bar can produce almost anything you wish with regards to food and drink. I, for example, have been sweating it out in the rafters and would not say no to... oh, a strawberry milkshake, say." Antiva may have the best food in Thedas, but there are definitely some off-world things that Zevran has learned to appreciate, too. One of them is the milkshake that appears on the table near his elbow. It's almost painfully pink, with a whole strawberry split and hooked over the side. That has a bright orange umbrella stuck into it, which matches the orange straw.
It's what Zevran fondly refers to as "a man's drink," though no one has yet been able to determine whether he's serious or not.
"You may order directly from the bar, or at it, or from the-" He seems to choke a bit. "From the wait-rats. They are hygienic, or so I am told."
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Zak did not know what this could cost him in the long run, when he could offer this strange elf little in return. Except for his skill with blades.. or in bed. Did Zevran plan to use his services to help him commit murder, or would the price be more... carnal?
None of this showed in his expression though, since the drow knew quite well that changing his expression might give his strange companion an upper hand.
"It is a very generous offer, and I am indeed grateful; but everything has a price, does it not? What would the cost of such shelter be?" Zak asked him outright, expression completely neutral.
The free drink is a welcome distraction. He smiles slightly. Since the drink is free and he has always been... curious, he may as well throw caution to the winds this once and ask for something he would have had no chance to taste in his homeland. Now, what would be the most difficult beverage to acquire had he been home?
"Perhaps you are right and a drink would be very much warranted...I would like a glass of Elverquisst, then, should this truly be free.." Zaknafein murmured contemplatively. "Centuries old, made only by high elves and horribly difficult to acquire." Especially since the liquor was only made in the high elven sanctuary of Evermeet.
The elegant, slightly frosted glass of ruby-colored, golden-flecked, iridescent liquid that appeared in front of him definitely startled Zaknafein badly, since he'd had no idea the Bar was even capable of producing anything from his world, much less this.
Somewhere out there, a high elf was probably swearing viciously out of rage. This knowledge only made the rare liquor taste that much better.
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"You said that you were a weapons master, did you not? And you use two blades as well, it seems. Very well, I should consider it ample remuneration if you were to spar with me here, from time to time, and perhaps teach me techniques that I could use to my advantage back home. I am familiar with most of those I have the opportunity to cross blades with, and I would welcome a change of pace--and some new skills."
The friendship is still given freely.
He could ask for carnal gratification, of course. But that is a currency that the Antivan is accustomed to offering, rather than accepting. Zevran enjoys sharing his body, knows its value and capability. But he's also aware that he is an exception rather than a rule with regards to that mentality. It is one thing to seduce, to engage in pleasure for the sake of it. It is another and darker thing to demand sex in return for services rendered. The Antivan may offer himself freely to others, but he has never reacted particularly well when people have demanded the use of his body.
Zevran arches an eyebrow at the glass that appeared on the table. "Is it supposed to look like that, or did something go wrong?" Generally, the only opaque drinks that Zevran sees aside from strong coffee or chocolate, and milk on occasion, are ones that have either gone bad or are too young to drink yet, and he makes it a policy not to drink anything that he cannot see to the bottom of, if he does not know what it is or who prepared it.
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While Zak had stated he was a weaponsmaster, what he hadn't taken the trouble to mention was that he had been arguably the best weapons master in the entire city of Menzoberranzan. Some even said he was the best in a thousand generations. It had driven Dantrag Baenre, the weapons master and prince of the First House of the city, practically mad with rage. Especially since Zak had refused to battle him or spar. Mostly because the Do'Urden weapons master had nothing to gain from it.
While he specialized in the Draa Velve, or two-sword style, Zak had also more than a rudimentary amount of training in the remaining 11 traditional drow fighting styles; if only because he needed to counter them. And this time, passing on these techniques would be a pleasure, since it was to train someone who would not aid in the fall of a House and thus aid in the deaths of children. Doubly so, because he was repaying a significant debt in doing so.
To Zaknafein, sex was a matter of survival skill, nothing but method of currency to barter with. Malice herself had said, the only reason he was still alive was because he amused her in bed. For himself, the drow had taken little pleasure in it after centuries of disillusionment, of having to use his skill in it to placate those higher in rank than he.
No, Zak was not willing or ready to go to anyone's bed yet. The Matron had left her clawmarks on him in more ways than he cared to acknowledge.
It was a very good thing that the Antivan had not asked for sex as a payment. For Zak would not truly have enjoyed it.
Zevran's last comment won a slight smile from the drow who held up the darkly translucent ruby fluid in the glass to admire the way the light set it seemingly afire, and aglow from within before he sipped at it and put it down to answer his question. "It's supposed to look like this, yes. Part of the brewing process is magical in nature."
Zak carefully didn't mention that it had... extensive effects on most people who weren't Faerun elves, and lacked their strong resistance to this type of alcohol.
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