Jarlaxle's arrival froze the air itself.
Anthony surveyed the situation, falling silent.
This was drow territory, and these two were clearly acquainted. If they joined forces against him, things could get messy.
Even reverting to his true dragon form might not save him.
House Baenre was the premier family of Menzoberranzan. Aside from its Matron Mother of legendary strength, her eldest—the First Daughter—would soon also attain such power.
By any measure, even among all the drow city-states of the Underdark, House Baenre stood as a true aristocracy.
Fortunately, Anthony and his companions had arrived early. At this time, Drizzt was still a novice, and the named "children" of House Baenre had likely not yet reached legendary strength.
But they were far from young—most were between 200 and 400 years old. The Baenre First Daughter, as Provost of the Spider Academy (the priestly institute), along with the eldest son, who could already cast 9th-level magic, were likely at least Level 18 by now.
The others, though lesser, would still be around Level 15.
Even without legendary power, they were already far beyond what Anthony—a Red Dragon still half a year from adulthood—could face head-on. These were opponents he could not overcome through brute force.
And that wasn't even considering those ancient monsters. His earlier victory had relied on information gap and the element of surprise. In a traditional mage duel, his half-baked skills would hardly match a high-tier mage.
A single enemy had proven difficult enough—his teammates were little more than distractions. Add a high-tier warrior, and Anthony would struggle to find any easy path to victory.
Compared to fragile mages, a high-tier warrior was the last foe he wanted to face right now.
Though his strength was overwhelming, his Dexterity was too low, his movements too sluggish.
Bullying clumsy mages was one thing, but against a gleaming, lavishly equipped drow warrior, he'd find himself at a disadvantage.
What good was raw power if he couldn't land a hit?
Drow warriors were masters of the razor's edge, renowned for their high mobility, extreme flexibility, and sheer lethality.
This was a wealthy race where even standard warriors wielded adamantine weapons.
Why were warriors so undervalued among adventurers? Simply because they were too numerous, and most lived in poverty. But a warrior with top-tier equipment and mage support? That was a god of war.
Countless warriors had altered the course of history. It was also the profession with the most Dragon Slayers. Most famed melee professionals had trained as warriors—even a certain legendary archmage had started as one.
Even Anthony had considered dipping a level into warrior just to snag three Expertise slots. But his thirst for other… pleasures had overruled his hunger for power.
And that was one reason he now found himself at a disadvantage.
Yet Anthony had also noticed two curious details.
First, Jarlaxle showed no hostility—not even a hint of confrontation. He seemed more like a passerby stopping to watch the spectacle.
The second oddity was the drow mage he'd just beaten half to death, stripped nearly naked. Yet even after Jarlaxle entered the room, ten seconds had passed without the mage uttering a single plea for help.
Anthony asked himself: If he were being hunted and beaten, and finally saw a familiar face, wouldn't he at least shout to see if that person might lend aid?
Even if they refused, he'd lose nothing but a shout.
So why wasn't the mage calling for help?
Anthony's mind raced.
Perhaps the mage and Jarlaxle weren't close. Maybe he simply disliked speaking. Or he could be one of Jarlaxle's creditors. Or maybe drow society was so treacherous that he feared this House Baenre guy would exploit his weakness…
The possibilities were many, and the risk of failure low. That settled it—Anthony would seize the initiative.
He would seize the Initiative in this matter.
He stared at Jarlaxle's face, afraid to miss even the slightest shift in expression, and was the first to speak: "Hey, isn't this Captain Jarlaxle?Just moments ago, a most honorable Priestess purchased a Paladin from me. I suppose she must be your…"
"Ah, that would be my Second Sister." Despite speaking of family, not a trace of pride crossed Jarlaxle's face.
Clearly, he took no joy in the exalted status of the women in his family.
Damn it. Anthony made a mental note to change his greeting tactic next time. These Drow nobles didn't seem to care much for familial glory.
But to his surprise, Jarlaxle seemed equally intrigued by him: "And how might I address you, Master?"
"My friends call me Anthony."
"Hmm, Anthony. Why is this place in such disarray? Did you have a clash with Belos?"
Hearing this, Anthony knew his gamble had paid off. Without giving the mage time to react, he struck first with an accusation: *"I came here to register my slaves for the arena—to let their life flame bring joy and excitement to the Drow of Menzoberranzan. But the moment I stepped inside, the attendant spouted nonsense, and then this archmage appeared. Without a word of inquiry, he unleashed a devastating 6th-circle spell upon us! My precious slaves were grievously wounded. Seeing this, I retaliated swiftly and defeated him in two strikes. Before your arrival, I was negotiating with this mage here regarding suitable compensation for his mistake. And then, well… you showed up, Captain."
"Oh? Is that so?" Jarlaxle chuckled. As the Mercenary Captain of this City, he did indeed hold law enforcement power here.
He turned to the grim-faced Drow mage and smirked. "Belos, it hasn't even been two years since your last offense—illegally experimenting on the corpses of Drow commoners. You're still on probation. And now you've gone and assaulted House Baenre's guests without cause. Care to explain yourself?"
"Misunderstanding, it's all a misunderstanding," Belos forced a humble smile, then raised his hands toward the counter. "This morning, I had just finished enchanting a magic item and was resting in my bedroom. Half-asleep, I heard my apprentices shouting something about 'Surface-dwellers attacking!' Shocked by the news, my only thought was to defend my homeland—the great Menzoberranzan. I rushed out to fight, so hastily that I didn't even grab my staff."
"When I saw actual Surface-dwellers at the door, my mind filled with visions of our city in ruins. Instinctively, I cast my most potent spell, Chain Lightning, to repel the invaders. But alas, it was all just an… unfortunate misunderstanding. That's the truth of it."
Jarlaxle thought, This story makes me out to be a fool. The doorman's face darkened further, his pallor turning ashen.
After three years of working here, he'd finally earned the chance to apprentice under this archmage. His mentor had given him strict instructions:
On non-working days, if slaves or strangers entered the club, he was to alert him immediately. Once his mentor reduced the intruders to charred corpses, the apprentice's job was to lock the doors and clean up the remains. In return for this gruesome labor, he'd receive thirty percent of the spoils looted from the dead.
The code phrase to signal such an incident? "Surface-dwellers are attacking."
It was meant to be a dark joke. Surface-dwellers lacked darkvision—give them ten centuries, and they'd still be no match for the Drow underground.
But now, hearing his mentor's twisted retelling, the phrase felt… different.
The apprentice glanced at the other three, all now staring at him. He opened his mouth to explain—
Then saw his mentor's hand glowing with a terrifying light.
Lightning Bolt!
The sudden attack put everyone on edge. Jarlaxle blurred forward, driving a fist into Belos' gut to stagger him, then swept his legs out. The mage crashed to the floor, pinned instantly.
Belos didn't seem bothered. His gaze flicked to his cheap apprentice—now blasted across the room, very dead—and he stifled a smirk. Feigning agony, he cried, "Easy, easy! I deeply apologize for disturbing Master Anthony. To make amends, I offer the life of my most… beloved apprentice. Surely such sincerity counts for something?"
That nonsense might fool the Little Witch, but not Anthony. "Sincerity? Bullshit!" he snarled. "You just murdered the only witness, you bastard!"
Belos seethed inwardly, but Anthony wasted no time arguing. He stormed into what looked like a kitchen.
Spin your tales. Kill the one person who could expose you. Try to weasel out of paying me five figures. Fine. No more talk—I'll find the proof myself.
Outside, Belos suddenly realized something. He shrieked, thrashing against Jarlaxle's grip—but a prone mage stood no chance against a warrior's hold.
Anthony shoved the door open. There it was: the archmage's so-called treasure, its magic light outshining even his high-tier robes.
Heh. You had another staff in here.
Without hesitation, Anthony grabbed it. The wood was pale, likely some Underdark rarity, its mana core a skull with ghostfire eyes. A fist-sized spider scuttled across the bone—though closer inspection revealed it as a living shadow, not flesh.
+2 Staff of the Venomous Web
Web Spray (3/day): Fires adhesive webs (60 ft range). Targets entangled must escape via DC 20 check or DC 24 Strength. Flammable; burning free deals 10 fire damage.
Spider Climb (2/day): Grants wall/ceiling traversal (no skill needed) for 10 minutes.
Note: Semi-finished. Effects would've grown stronger upon completion.
Not bad. Anthony tossed it into his backpack and strode out, hands empty—but Belos knew exactly what the greedy 'mage' had stolen.
"NO! What have you done to my masterpiece?! Master Anthony! Captain Jarlaxle! We must talk—TALK!"