Dinin swayed for a moment on unsteady feet, still learning how to maintain his balance with three of his toes missing. 150 years had passed since he'd seen Jarlaxle, and though his memory of being a drider under Vierna's control is shoddy at best, he is certain the last time his old friend saw him was as a bloated, grotesque beast. The memory served as a very persistent motivator for his current task. There was nothing in this world that mattered more to Dinin than avoiding the Curse of Abomination. Even now, safe in one of Jarlaxle's many hideouts, he twitched at every sound. Even with Zhindia Melarn rumored to be dead and gone, Dinin still feared that his "escape" was nothing but a dirty trick to extend his misery—that any moment he would be recaptured, back in that small dungeon cell, and—

And no matter. He pushed the thoughts as far as he could from his mind. He was far from the clawed grip of Menzoberranzan for a moment. Though he didn't dare think he had escaped Lolth's eye, he tried to calm himself with the truth that at the very least, his time at the Melarn home was ended. All that mattered now was the road ahead.

And that road depended on Jarlaxle.

The man who stood before the famed mercenary was not the same as the man he would have once known. But Dinin, as stripped of pride as he may have been, found a bit of his old self returned as he looked at Jarlaxle. Dinin trusted no one, a lesson he had been taught over and over again, but if there was one person in this world that he still carried fondness for, it was him. The drow felt a strange, uncomfortable sorrow bloom in his chest; sorrow for a time now lost to him, far gone in his past. A time before he knew the endless pain and torment of being a drider. A time when he almost felt safe in the protection of Bregan D'aerthe.

He would never feel safe again.

But he could not let this show. He could not afford to feel the self-pity that boiled in his body. No, right now, he had a mission. He would not survive on his own, not in his current state. He needed Bregan D'aerthe. He needed Jarlaxle. Dinin had no alternative if the man denied him. So he took great care to appear calm, as if no time at all had passed between them. Dinin figured this was the best way to approach the situation, for he had no words to fill the gaps in their time together.

𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘳 : 𝔯𝔞𝔭𝔥𝔞𝔢𝔩 prompt from : 𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐃  &  𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐅𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄

A grin touched Raphael’s lips as his eyes met the drow’s audacious little wink. For the first time all evening, a flash of genuine delight stirred within him. Most mortals were such tiresome, boring things. But this one. . . this one had swag a little something. His gaze drifted lazily over the stranger’s form, evaluating the posture, the ostentatious finery, the confidence.

What an odd. . . lovely specimen, a thought coiled.

He raised his glass, swirling the ruby liquid with finesse, his gaze never breaking. Then, with a single, beckoning finger, he made it clear—this wasn’t a request. It was a dare.

Jaheira blinked, utterly caught off guard, her head tilting slightly as if trying to discern whether she’d just been challenged or warned.

“Was that... meant to deter me or encourage me?”

"I got the great gromph himself to enchant a bottle of wine for us. If you wish to chat still."

So Jarlaxle kept his word.

With a newly vested interest, Connor is suddenly... All ears. Figuratively, of course.