#post-sundering

One fine Waterdhavian night, Artemis Entreri happens to glance out of the window of his rented room to behold an unexpected sight. Across the broad, stone-paved street, he spots a familiar wide-brimmed hat, which clearly marks the identity of its owner even when the owner’s face couldn’t, buried as it was in the ample bosom of none other than Laeral Silverhand. From the way that the brightly-clad individual’s foot and hands are still raised, as well as the aghast expression on the lady’s face, the assassin surmises easily enough what had transpired just heartbeats before.

He allows a single snort of laughter to escape him. The world-wise man had heard that the legendary Blackstaff and husband of Lady Silverhand, Khelben Arunsun, was long deceased, but mages of that caliber always seem to have a way of cheating death. Furthermore, the Open Lord of Waterdeep has no small reputation to her name either.

The assassin winces before responding sardonically, “Be not a fool, who could possibly resist an elixir as exquisite as sewer water? I would think that a choice so clear can only be rendered inconclusive if  the very foods of the gods were presented as an alternative, surely no mundane meals, mere travel rations at that, could ever stand in competition.” 

Despite his irrepressible sarcasm, the all-too-acute recollection of the foul liquid in his mouth causes the angular visage to twist in disgust, and the slightly nauseated man curses again those overly garrulous self-styled Companions of the Hall. “Gossipers of the Hall” would be a much more fitting title, Entreri thinks to himself with a grimace as he pushes back into the recesses of his mind the lingering worry of what else strangers might know of him thanks to the so-called heroes’ apparent lack of respect for the privacy of others. 

Noting his perturbed state, the disciplined assassin wipes a hand over his countenance, subtly drawing in a deep breath as he does so, his hand falling away to reveal a mask of calm accentuated by a steady flinty gaze. In a detached and almost bored tone, he states, “All of the various foodstuffs are palatable enough, even the ones intended for the most barbaric and heinous of all the races.” A half-smirk quirks a corner of his lips as he adds, “However, it appears that there has been an oversight in the preparation of that particular fare. Through my own displeasure of dining with them, more than the cheese of the rothe should be present in a drow’s meal, for they quite enjoy the various cuts of meat from the animal as well.” 

Chuckling despite himself, Entreri recommences, “All of the assembled foods are agreeable enough, too much so in fact. Even the most basic of them would be a feast for a poor man or beggar, who would be hard-pressed to find bugs so fat as those in the lizardfolk’s feast on the dusty streets of Calimport.” An ancient memory and its associated anguish threatens to surface, but the assassin suppresses it with practiced ease as he continues, “The most practical of all of the travel rations would be the generic one intended for all, for it combines the elements of basic necessity with imperishability. There is enough variation in the components that all but the most choosy eaters could sustain themselves on it for meal after meal.” And the most choosy of all carries and conjures his own elaborate feasts with a flick of a wand, the amused man silently adds. 

Falling impassive once more, the assassin returns to the topic, “Some of these so-called rations are absurd. The one deigned for humans comprises of an entire, whole shank of ham. Putting that aside, although I typically mind not the particulars of my meal, I would be displeased if presented with that array of uncooked vegetables. Am I to gnaw on them like a horse? Perhaps they are meant for my mount? That seems hardly appropriate either, for anything imported from faraway Sembia would more befit a lord’s table than horse’s feed, especially something as exotic as a green variant of whitebrains, which I had not even known existed. Is the intention that they are ingredients to be prepared over the fire when I make camp? That would defeat the purpose of rations, would it not? The chestnuts in this instance can be opened easily enough, but that can hardly be said of the nuts in the half-orc and orcish rations.” Another memory bubbles to the top, but Entreri allows this one to manifest, and a faint sadness tinged with embarrassment touches his heart as the image of a emerald-eyed woman with a wide but fair face framed by a halo of reddish-brown hair paints itself before his mind’s eye. A bit of amused warmth banishes some of the discomfort as he imagines her attempting to crack the hard shell of a walnut between her straight and perfect teeth, the vision affirming the ridiculousness of it all, but then the image of her is superimposed by that of her other half, a much more brutish and male entity that resembles his heritage as much as she deviates from hers. The soft warmth is snuffed out by disgusted discontent as the image unfolds of a mouth twisted by uneven canines and complete with tusks grinding at the walnut, which now seems a trifling thing, its shell ready to shatter significantly before the brute’s teeth do. Realizing that his judgment has been colored by his loss of objectivity, as well as the sneer that had started to creep over his features, Entreri berates himself and forces the doubtlessly long-dead couple from his thoughts. His voice not betraying even a hint of shakiness, the distracted man assesses, “It would hardly be worthwhile to dull any blade in exchange for attempting to pry open a hard nut. Although I would partake of the half-orc or even the orcish ration, I would sooner waste my time on those kinds of nuts than I would gnawing on rothe femur, and I would not burden myself whilst traveling with a tool for the sole use of cracking open nuts.” 

Impatience beginning to overtake him in the course of discussing at length a subject he usually spends little time even thinking about and the side effects that have accompanied the exercise, the boredom in the assassin’s voice turns towards restlessness as he continues, “The dwarven ration is practical, if not insufficiently bland and foul-smelling for their kind. The elven ration boasts too many distinct flavors and would likely call undesired attention to whomever is consuming it from the sweet scents it must give off, but perhaps this is the desired effect so that they may dance with the birds and the bees after eating their meal. I would not partake of the wine in the gnome ration if I were using it as what it was meant to be, and I question the wisdom in those of such small stature doing so as well. The halfling ration is laughable and clearly created by someone who has never met a halfling, or otherwise there was a mistake in associating the true halfling ration with humans. However, that circumstance is also flawed, for there is not nearly enough in any single portion of any of these fares to satisfy even a single halfling’s appetite.”