paixaorpg | A Meeting of Dark Elves

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A Meeting of Dark Elves

Characters: Illidan Stormrage, Jarlaxle Baenre
Content: Jarlaxle seeks out Illidan, preparatory to beginning his training in certain methods that will allow him to get around more easily. An alliance may or may not be forged. All the usual doubletalk, hidden meanings, and the like that one tends to see in Drow dealings, plus whatever Illidan throws into the mix.
Setting: Actua Are
Time: Early evening, two days after this journal entry.
Warnings: Hmm... Potentially some mild language, fireworks of a magical nature, and probably some generally Very Scary Stuff (tm).

As the train rumbled along, Jarlaxle watched the passing scenery with interest. This was the epitome - and subsequent antithesis - of everything Drow society strove for. It even had its own equivalent of the ruling matrons, this 'Organization XIII', and something similar to Bregan D'aerth, a shadowed force beginning to take form in the background.

All it needed was a crazed spider goddess, he mused humorously. And a bit less light.

He had visited two of the three locations marked as 'Actua Are' on his map, and neither of them had known who he could have been talking about when he inquired about one Illidan Stormrage. Now, he was en route to the third and final one. He hadn't expected to find his quarry at the first stop; indeed, he had gotten quite lost along the way. But, unlike Menzoberanzan, he did not have to worry about lurking death here. At least, not yet.

Soon, though. After all, what was life without a little excitement?

Stepping off of the train at its stop, he surveyed his surroundings. He was certainly doing a great deal more legwork without Rai-guy and Kimmuriel, that was for certain. Ah well. He had time. He chuckled at that thought as he set off. Yes, he certainly had time.

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The passage of time really meant nothing to a man, an elf, who had already spent 5000 years in complete darkness, imprisoned for perceived crimes. So, however long it took for Jarlaxle to find him, Illidan hardly noticed.

He spent a good bit of his free time bringing the hotel room, and most of the hotel, up in his sight, carefully coating everything in a layer of magic. It took a great deal of care to get everything lighting up properly, and a great deal of attention. The patience and care rewarded him with a visible room, vibrant in magic. And certainly, he wouldn't be walking into the door frames any time soon.

The Night Elf did spend some time listening to the things that came up on the journals. It was a small blessing that the journals could be set to speak everything that was written. In fact, it was the only way he was able to communicate with the other people who had those journals.

Jarlaxle had better luck finding the third Actua Are; only time would tell if he would have better luck inside. He painted an interesting picture, in his jewel-bedecked clothing, with his eyepatch and his cap with its overlarge Diatrima feather. He certainly fit the bill for Paixao's love of colorful and shiny things.

"Good evening, and welcome to Actua Are; how can I help you?" asked the desk clerk with a perky smile.

"Ah, good evening, miss. I have been looking for a gentleman by the name of Illidan Stormrage; you wouldn't happen to know whether he is here, would you?" As always, Jarlaxle was his charming self.

"Illidan, Illidan... Ah, yes. He checked in here a few days ago. Is he expecting you?"

"Yes; we met over the journals, you see, and he requested my aid with a problem he has. Poor fellow has a hard time seeing." Jarlaxle smiled a sad smile, playing the game he'd been playing for centuries.

"Ah; I'm sorry to hear that. He's in room 22 B; I'll have an attendant lead you up," she said, before ringing her desk bell to summon a porter. And, just like that, Jarlaxle was being led toward a piece of the future.

A glow called his attention toward the door of his room, a magic different from what Illidan had already used to shed light upon the otherwise dark room. He waited for the door to open and Jarlaxle to enter, for he was certain that it couldn't be anyone else approaching. After all, he hadn't called for the innkeeper...

"Here we are. 22 B. We hope you enjoy your stay," said the attendant with a smile before leaving. Jarlaxle did nothing more than shake his head and laugh inwardly. So willing to help, these people.

He wondered how they would respond once he controlled them.

But that was the future; now, he had to teach a blind man how to see in the dark. It promised to be a worthwhile task, if he could accomplish it.

Tapping lightly on the door before opening it, Jarlaxle stepped inside... to find himself looking up, and up, and up some more, at what had to be the -biggest- dark elf he had ever seen. Illidan was larger than even that half-breed weaponmaster, what was his name... it didn't matter. He was big, and he was blind. And, Jarlaxle noted, he had magic. -Lots- of magic. The whole room felt like it was covered in it. "Illidan Stormrage, I presume?"

Illidan watched as the glow became brighter. It was a clear indication that the door had opened, and he could see Jarlaxle approach. Inwardly, he smirked. The other man was small, relatively speaking, and even moreso in comparison to himself. If he could hear Jarlaxle's train of thought, he would have laughed. After all, most Night Elves were of similar stature, if not build. Being small was what was strange among his people, and even then, it was a common thread among the Highborne.

"Indeed. You must be Jarlaxle, then?"

"The one and only," Jarlaxle confirmed with an easy grin, which was entirely wasted on Illidan. The next thing Jarlaxle noted about his host were the eyes, glowing green through the cloth wrapped around his head. Intriguing; perhaps some form of magesight?

Whatever they were, he would know before long. "Would you rather we become better acquainted first, or would you prefer to get straight to work?" he asked, leaning back against the door with his arms folded. No less than a dozen weapons, magical and mundane, were within easy reach of his fingers.

If Jarlaxle were curious enough, he could ask to see what lay behind Illidan's blindfold. Of course, the sight would not be too pretty, as that green glow was not necessarily his eyes glowing, but orbs of mystic fire set in the place where his eyes should be. He was, however, spot on about the mage sight.

"Either option is fine by me. I am used to both situations." There were times when one did not have the luxury of getting to know those with whom he was working. And Illidan was not quite sure which situation this would prove to be, in the end.

If Jarlaxle dared to draw a weapon, the Night Elf would know. His senses were honed enough for that, at least. And if the small elf did try, Illidan would not be worried. It took a few seconds to close distance and strike. It took the blink of an eye for him to cast Polymorph and move.

And it would take less than half a second for Jarlaxle to hurl three daggers; that, coupled with the fact that his cape - which bore a heavy displacement enchantment - would make it very difficult for even a spell to hit him, evened things up quite considerably. It was all relative, where dark elves and magic were concerned.

Not that he had any intention of doing so. Illidan intrigued him, and he had already pledged his aid. "It has been said that the simplest way to take the measure of a man is to engage him in combat, and to observe the way he fights. In Menzoberanzan, such fights usually prove fatal; I prefer to avoid them. It would seem that we have a good deal of time, if any of the various information flitting about on these... 'journals' is an indication. Let us first share a meal, and perhaps some conversation." This human method of getting to know one's acquaintances had impressed itself upon Jarlaxle, during his time on the surface of Faerun; he was curious, and perhaps a bit eager, to see how well it worked when individuals such as this Illidan were involved.

Ah, but magic wasn't the only thing Illidan had up his non-existent sleeve. It was just the fastest thing, and the most lethal. He also had his Warblades, and they were just as easily called to hand... Not that it would matter at the moment.

"I think a meal and conversation sounds preferable." Though Illidan was no stranger to combat, and far more than capable of holding his own if it came down to it. "You have me at a disadvantage, being able to see while I cannot. And while I am more than capable of handling myself, strange surroundings make any such endeavor all the more difficult."

"That is what we intend to correct, is it not?" Jarlaxle inquired, opening the door. "Eyesight is so overrated by surface dwellers. A simple darkness spell can foil even the sharpest eye; it is better by far to train the other senses."

So saying, Jarlaxle called down a globe of magical darkness, centered on himself. "Learn to trust those senses. They are not as easily fooled." And with that, he walked out the door, waiting for Illidan in the hallway.

"Indeed," Illidan commented, watching Jarlaxle carefully. The comment about "surface dwellers" was puzzling, but chose not to say anything about it for now. Jarlaxle's other words struck a chord, bothering the Night Elf in a way nothing else so far had. It almost seemed like there was an assumption there, that he wasn't experienced in dealing with his lack of sight. The only thing he wasn't experienced with was being in this city. His magical sight was something he hadn't had for very long, but this city reminded him that he had become reliant on the magic always being there...

"I am more than aware," he noted as he followed Jarlaxle. The smaller elf might have hidden his figure in darkness, and fooled Illidan's sight with it, but if the darkness itself was magical, he would be more than capable of seeing the edges of it.

Illidan may have been accustomed to his lack of sight, but his current inability to operate without his ability to see magic told Jarlaxle that he hadn't truly learned to get around it. If he had, he wouldn't be bumping into doorways.

"You need not fear the darkness; I have no intention of attacking you. I am as deprived of sight as you, at this moment. However, even in the absence of sight, it is possible to discern the locations of objects, such as that doorframe. Your other senses - touch, scent, hearing, even taste - can tell you just as much as eyesight, even magical. What do they tell you now?" Jarlaxle took two steps to his right, waiting for Illidan's reply.

It wasn't so much a lack of true learning, to be honest. It was 5,000 years of an additional sight mechanism thrown into the mix that threw him off, to the point where he had become admittedly reliant upon it. And although the magic sight was beneficial, Illidan was mildly embarrassed by this fact. How was he supposed to know that the buildings in this place had such low doors? On Azeroth, everything was so open that the doorways were more than big enough to accommodate the tall Night Elves that lived there.

"Who fears the darkness?" he commented, pausing in his movements to let the magic of the darkness settle over him. It was so thick he couldn't discern much with his mage sight, though he supposed that was entirely the point. Illidan was certain that his other senses hadn't dulled much over the years. Well, at least his hearing hadn't. "You tell me things I already know, Jarlaxle." Already known and not forgotten, just set aside for a while. "My senses tell me that you do not realize that I have been blind from birth."

Illidan was a patient man, capable of dealing with Naga Queens and evil titans. Even his patience had its limits, and just like anyone else, he wasn't pleased to be robbed of one sense on another's whim.

To put it bluntly, he was supposed to know by using his other senses. Even magical sight could be, and often was, fooled.

"Then consider this a refresher course, Illidan. It will certainly make my job simpler." And indeed it would. Provided, of course, that Illidan still -remembered- how to use his other senses.

If not, it was going to be tough.

"At any rate. If you wish, I shall walk around as blindly as yourself, to make things more even. For now, however, let us find something to eat, and attempt to become better companions."

As easily as magical sight could be fooled, misdirected, mislead, the other senses could, as well. There were things that smelled like what they weren't, things that felt fuzzy but were actually hard. Illidan could offer quite a few things that fell into the category of seeming one way but actually being something completely different. Besides, sounds didn't tell him that the ceiling was about three feet lower than he was used to. Taste didn't tell him to duck because the doors were equally low. And having never encountered human civilizations, he had no way of knowing that the people who walked the streets of this city were any different from those who walked the forests of Azeroth--seven feet tall and darkly complected.

He had come to the conclusion that he might have been better off just trying to cope with his predicament. If this was Jarlaxle's personality, well, he'd seen Highborne behave better toward their less noble cousins, and with a lot less irritating of natures. And, having learned the Highborne magics, he was quite aware of how the noble cousins behaved.

"Walk as you will, it makes no difference to me," he stated simply. Food sounded good, and it seemed like it would be better for his temper than listening to Jarlaxle's unexpectedly barbed words.

Jarlaxle smiled a veiled smile, and noted to himself that this Illidan, wherever he had come from, was of a markedly better temperament than even Kimmuriel. Good; he valued such things in his lieutenants.

As if someone had thrown a switch, Jarlaxle became the epitome of courtesy at that point, letting up his globe of darkness and leading Illidan down the hall, down the stairs, through the lobby, and out into the street - with the appropriate warnings for low overhangs and doorways. Anyone who knew what it meant to be Drow would have been worried, watching their own backs for a dagger that would almost assuredly meet them head on; those who look for death from behind will find it in the front, as the proverb went.

But then, Jarlaxle had no such intention.

Finally, after a rather interesting walk during which they were both closely inspected by the strange glowing creatures that populated the city, they reached a nearby cafe, into which Jarlaxle, still the soul of kindness, led Illidan.

A long, raised eyebrow met Jarlaxle's sudden change in demeanor, and Illidan grew increasingly suspicious of the shorter elf as time passed and his courtesy didn't diminish. Regardless of whether or not he was familiar with the Drow, such changes in personality never boded well for anyone.

Regardless, Illidan allowed Jarlaxle to guide him, grateful for the warnings offered by the other elf. Things would be... well... interesting, he supposed, and he would just have to wait and see what happened.

Under normal circumstances, Illidan's wariness would have been well warranted. But these were not normal circumstances, by any stretch of the imagination.

"What sort of food do you prefer, if I may make so bold as to ask?" he queried, taking a seat and picking up one of the menus. "I'm aware that some of our kin prefer to avoid meat..."

When was anything about the situation as a whole normal? This was certainly not any place in Azeroth that Illidan knew, and if it was, there would be Kaldorei on his heels trying to get him back under control, under wraps, and completely and utterly incapacitated.

"Anything will be fine," he stated simply. "Avoid meat? Bah. Those who do are foolish, or entirely too wrapped up in their druidry. Avoid meat indeed..."

Jarlaxle shrugged a nonchalant shrug and grinned. Not that Illidan could see the latter. This certainly wasn't Faerun either; there weren't enough people waving pitchforks for that. "Very well. We'll have two of these," he said to their waitress, pointing to the most expensive items on the menu. "And a matching wine. Zrenic, if you have it."

If nothing else could confirm the aforementioned knowledge that this was not his world, the blank look that the waitress gave him at the mention of the enchanted elven wine was more than enough.

Ah well. Maybe the humans had something comparable. For now, he'd just have to let them surprise him.

"I've never seen the point, myself. Druidic upbringing or no, I fail to see the wisdom in avoiding sustenance of good quality," he said with a smile that was only mildly wry. Of course, there wasn't really much meat of good quality to be -had- in the Underdark, but he wasn't about to tell Illidan that. It was just a needless detail, after all.

Briefly, Illidan wondered what Jarlaxle ordered for them to eat, but it didn't really matter. The wine he suggested was unfamiliar, but most wines were. The Night Elf didn't consider himself to be a heavy drinker of any kind of spirit.

"You would be surprised the kind of ideas that can get into your head when you live half your life in the shape of an animal," Illidan pointed out. He had seen first hand what could happen when druids left themselves to their animal forms for too long. Well, not necessarily seen, but you get the point. "Supposedly, I would have been a great druid. However, I found my calling in more arcane magics."

"Mm. I can imagine. It'd be comparable to living them out as a Drider, I suspect... albeit more pleasant." The drow-spider hybrids, creatures created from the wrath of a high priestess in Lloth's favor from drow who had fallen into dishonor, were widely acknowledged to be the most disgusting fate a Drow could face.

Settling in to wait for their order, Jarlaxle considered Illidan's words. As he had suspected, Illidan was an arcanist. It really was amazing, the sort of information one could glean from simply listening. "I've been told I could have been a great weaponsmaster, had I remained with my House..." he replied, considering his words. "But, that would not have worked out so well."

The term "Drider" was an unfamiliar one, though Illidan supposed it had something to do with spiders of some kind. He listened to the information that Jarlaxle offered. The information one could glean from listening was nothing more than the information that the speaker chose to offer, whether blatantly or veiled in other words and thoughts. Illidan had not denied his passion for arcanistry. Hell, who would?

"It seems that there are many who would prefer to seek their fortunes on paths other than those of their family's choosing," the Night Elf said, as if contemplating the point himself. "Says something of the families in question."

"Mm. It does indeed," he allowed, with a tone of mildly wry humor. "And of the cultures involved, as well."

The waitress returned at that point, carrying a bottle of wine and a pair of glasses. Jarlaxle contemplated the bottle for a moment, then, out of consideration, outlined both Illidan's glass and the bottle with harmless, heatless faerie fire. That done, he poured for the both of them and sampled his glass. Not bad. Not the best he'd had, but not bad.

"Let us cast aside these wanderings into such troubling subjects. Shall we regale one another with tales of better days?" he suggested, smiling. Always the charmer, Jarlaxle... even when his efforts couldn't be seen. There were, after all, others around, others who could make things... much more difficult, if they caught onto the drow's nature.

"Everything a person does betrays their culture, regardless," Illidan pointed out as he reached for his own glass of wine. The faerie fire was noted and appreciated, though the Night Elf made no indication of such. Had Jarlaxle not done it, Illidan would have, and the result would have been the same.

He sipped the wine. "Depends on if the days were actually better than they are now." Discussing his brother was a very, well, dangerous subject for Illidan and there was no doubt that much of his younger years were spent with Malfurion and Tyrande. Those so-called "better days" were things he tried to put out of his mind. After all, betrayal cut deeply, especially when it came at the hands of family.

"Mm... I suppose it would, at that," he mused, hiding a sigh. Yet another pothole; Jarlaxle was beginning to understand how people felt dealing with -him- and the shadowy depths of Bregan Daerth.

Sipping at his wine again, Jarlaxle settled into a more contemplative mood. "I like to think that, despite cultural influences, a person can turn out differently from the culture that raised them. The two of us, for example," he added, with a resurgent grin.

Dealing with Illidan was a road bound to be littered with potholes. It was just a simple fact that came with the Night Elf, and something that was rather difficult to get around. After all, much of his childhood had been spent with the very people who betrayed him, and who wanted to relive those memories when they cut so deeply?

"Anything is possible," Illidan commented. "Though I suppose it is highly likely for those very influences to drive one away from the culture they come from." It was a possibility, after all, though not necessarily something that Illidan himself had experienced. Highborne culture was still a part of the Kaldorei culture, after all, and though he had never been Highborne, he embodied their culture moreso than that of the casual Night Elf.

Jarlaxle was spared having to make further comment by the arrival of their food. Fillet mignon, baked potato, and all the fixings; not bad, not bad at all. Though, now that he could see the dishes in question, he rather doubted they would be of a sufficient portion to give the Night Elf a decent snack. "Do you perhaps have larger portions," he asked the waitress, nodding toward Illidan to illustrate his point. "We've never eaten here before, you see."

He was informed that they did indeed have larger portions, not of the same thing but of something comparable. They would have to pay for what they had ordered already, though. Jarlaxle was quite agreeable with that. Particularly since he had read that the locals were magpie-like.

Illidan did naught but listen, reaching out with his magic in order to light up the people who came and went around them. It was a very curious thing to see the way some of them glowed, but he figured that the natives of the area were... different from those he had encountered before.

The Night Elf shook his head upon hearing the comments of the server. He couldn't help an amused smile. "We never had intentions of not paying for what we ordered, did we?"

"Not that I am aware of," Jarlaxle replied, with a rueful shake of his head. "Perhaps some other outsiders have been less scrupulous. It would explain many things if they have."

Jarlaxle mostly just observed people coming and going, relying on his senses and the various enchanted objects spread about his person to tell him everything he needed to know. They were an odd lot, to be certain; people coming and going, eating and not really talking among themselves. Their expressions were flat, and their voices equally so; he was beginning to wonder if this were intentional, because of their presence, or if it were simply their natural state. If it were the later, something was distinctly odd about them all.

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A Meeting of Dark Elves

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