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complementme · 5 years

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The Art of Negotiation

She’s sitting on the wooden floor, legs straight out in front of her but crossed at the ankles, hands demurely folded in her lap. In front of her sits one of her former flames, holding her in this extra-dimensional space for her open defiance of his plan. Her plan, should she be able to pull it off, is to stall him long enough for her comrades to handle the business with the artifact he is desperately after. They don’t need to do anything but hand it to someone else, that’s all she needs them to do so he will turn away from them and bother someone else.

“It’s so lonely to be just the two of us, isn’t it Folys?” he asks, golden eyes stern. With a snap of his fingers, two Drow enter the room.

Her plan had been foolproof, until her lover was thrown down beside her and it became a hostage situation.

“Nell!” It’s an admission that she immediately knows is a mistake. Wylym, her former flame – true name Jarlaxle – has her and he knows it. She’s the type to try and save everyone that she can, and putting someone so important down next to her was making his life easier. Her eyes return to him, fearful but hardened. She doesn’t like the situation he’s created, and she doesn’t know how to fix it without giving in to his demand. She instinctively grabs for her left shoulder blade, brushing her fingertips over where her tribute tattoo to her father resided. Only two people in Waterdeep even knew she had additional tattoos outside of her familial markings, and they both happened to be in the room. She had promised to tell Nell what the intricate sword with flame inlay meant later, not wanting to interrupt their tryst with a somewhat sad story. But there might not be a later if Jarlaxle had anything to say about it.

“In the end, we are all just people who want something. I want to openly lead the city of Luskan as part of the Lord’s Alliance. I am tired of watching the people of my city suffer without support. I am tired of the image that the Drow still have on the surface world. You want Keegan McFadden gone. You want your lover returned to you safely. You want to run your tavern in peace. These are all things I can give to you, that I want to give to you. Please choose your lover, not some new-found commitment to the status quo and the corruption that exists within Waterdeep.”

She refocuses her hardened expression on the seated man, teal eyes burning with the emotions she can’t yet give name to. She’s never been in a hostage situation, let alone the one holding the hostage’s life in her hands. It’s unnerving, and she’s beginning to understand why her father quit the adventuring business. In her head she hears her familiar calling to her, promising to come to her aid. She tells him that everything is fine and he needs to stay with the others. He can act as a messenger between them, and keep their youngest safe. Jarlaxle doesn’t know she has a familiar, he’s the only secret she’s got left.

She looks back to Nell, who is trying to say something around the gag. She can’t make out what’s being said, but she doubts that Jarlaxle is going to let her take off the restraint and ask. She tightens her grip on her shoulder, taking a steadying breath. Her father could talk his way through anything, and though she’s the spitting image of her mother, she is her father’s daughter. She doesn’t know if he would have been conflicted about the situation, however, and for that she’s on her own.

“Please don’t hurt her,” she settles on, meeting his gaze.

“Trust me, Folys, I do not wish to hurt our dear Nell.” He bends over in the chair to stroke the top of Nell’s head much like an owner would to a beloved pet. It’s such a condescending gesture that Folys is simmering just under the surface though she can just tell that he knows exactly what reaction he’s eliciting. Her fingers twitch as she retrains herself from bodily removing Jarlaxle’s hand from Nell’s head. Folys is cursing her patron for not giving her the ability to read minds, because Nell is trying to say something again. “You are both truly so lovely, you should be happy together.” She’s got to keep him talking and get him to stop touching Nell. There’s a fury in her eyes that somehow doesn’t seep into her voice. She wants answers, not to antagonize him further.

“How long have you had her? How long have you been watching me?” It’s the question that’s worrying her most as she sits and thinks on it. He’s been so many people they’ve interacted with, who was to say that he wasn’t the person who set them up on this trajectory from the beginning?

“I happened upon Nell shortly after she visited you this morning at Trollskull Manor,” he states as he sits up. “You caught my attention shortly after your group acquired that manor.” Folys is trying to work out the logistics and is beginning to suspect she is in over her head. He had already demonstrated that he was a master of illusion, he could look like whoever he wanted. It was possible that he had been around since the beginning and she would be none the wiser.

“What good does threatening her here do? The others already agreed.” This was a question she asked out of genuine curiosity, she needed to know why he had resorted to this when he had what he wanted. He had already gotten the others to agree to help, she was the lone holdout. With her in this space, there was nothing she could do to impede their progress.

“I have two reasons for why I’ve kept you here. First, I need to know we’re all on the same team.” He’s smiling congenially at her as he waves his hand. His visage changes from a high-elf noble man to a charcoal-skinned Drow right before her eyes. This is his true form, and it is worlds more intimidating than the other personas she had encountered. “That team includes you. The Yuan-Ti fears for the exposure of his identity. The Bladesingers all cow to me when I push my thumb down, their weakness of character should be quite evident to the both of us. The samurai’s true demons lie with the Xanathar. The half-Drow can be bought with coin and power. But you, you are different, which brings me to my second reason.” He’s smirking at her, and all she can do is return a neutral stare. “I do not think lowly of you, Folys. There is a quality to your blatant defiance of me that I find nearly irresistible.” His wink has her biting her cheek.

“Oh, only nearly irresistible?” she queries, raising an eyebrow.

“Be careful with your charm, my old flame. I’m only flesh and blood. I have instincts.” He leans towards her, red eyes raking over her form suggestively. Folys finds herself both disgusted and flattered.

“How can I be an old flame if it was only one night, and if I look nothing like I did then?” she asks, sounding almost naïve—Jarlaxle probably knows her well enough from watching that he could read through that effortlessly. She was deliberately toeing the line to see what she could get away with, to buy time, to refocus her thoughts.

“You say that as though your beauty could be so easily hidden. It betrays you.” Something in his tone gives her pause, which he takes as an invitation to continue. “Do you have any other questions?” She is curious, of course, as to what he might mean that she specifically caught his interest, but the more pressing issue is the hostage he is currently holding over her. Nell’s safety has to be the first priority, even above her own. She has a small amount of magic still in reserve and her casting isn’t impeded in any way. If she can get Nell out, she can escape on her own power when the time is right.

“Let us form a partnership. Get me the stone, and I can get rid of Keegan McFadden for you, permanently. I know you are angry with me, but I can make very good things happen for you, Luskan, and all of the disenfranchised surface Drow.” He extends a slender, charcoal colored hand. “Please. Agree to this and I will give you Nell.”

Her expression shifts to one she wears often in her line of business—a demure smile with a hint of flirty promises. This is the mask she hides behind to compose herself when things begin to go south and she has to regain her footing. She must buy time to make sense of everything he’s said so far, to give her companions the time they need to figure out what to do. He seems to prefer her when she’s flirting, so she incorporates that more into her speech.

“For McFadden, well…” There’s a heavy hesitation and her smile falters to show her immense dislike. “I only want him locked up where he can’t hurt anyone anymore.” There’s a strain to her voice as she tries to keep things light, broadcasting her internal conflict. In the deepest part of her heart she knows she wants McFadden buried, but she had made a deal with her patron and the celestial powers-that-be to better the world and promote goodness. Killing McFadden would better the world (probably), but it wasn’t the right way to do it when he could be rehabilitated and serve out his sentence.

“A boorish brute such as that deserves worse, but I will respect your wishes, Folys, to not have him killed off. Provided we reach an agreement, Seronis Talwynd shall take good care of him.” He looks put off by the idea that she is requesting mercy, but she takes her opportunity to push for more.

“If I get you the stone, I want a guarantee of safety for Nell and the others.” She’s looking him in the eyes, showing him that she’s seriously considering it. He’s got such an intense focus on her that she feels she might be melting under his gaze. “That you and yours will not do anything to harm them.” She’d nearly run out of healing magic, so she had to ensure that neither herself nor Nell would be injured as she continued to make her demands. She takes a breath and sends a sad smile to Nell. She doesn’t want to buckle, but she’s out of options. If Nell wanted to avoid her after this, that was fine. She understood.

“And I want Nell to walk out of her first, on her own power. Untie her and let her go.” Her gaze returns to Jarlaxle, defiant but defeated. She knows she’s lost, and to prevent unnecessary bloodshed she has to agree. “These are my terms: Jail McFadden. Release Nell. Safety for Nell, myself, Tommi, and the others. You don’t tell anyone who got you the stupid stone. And you don’t interfere with my life, or anyone connected with me, ever again.” Her fists are clenched in her lap, nails biting into her palms. She has one more demand, but she doesn’t know if it will land. “Finally, I want a promise that you will not kill anyone else to get a seat with the Alliance. You wouldn’t want to lie to me again, would you?” She flashes him a winning smile, not offering her hand.

“Your last request is one I cannot meet,” he says flatly, retracting his hand. She’s crossed a line, she can see his expression darkening, but she maintains her smile as if he wasn’t a rapidly darkening stormcloud. “The road to politics and power is paved with blood and intrigue. I do not enjoy killing and consider it a last resort, but I cannot honestly take that last card off the table, you’ll have to forgive me. Everything else is completely reasonable, provided the stone is handed over.”

“Thank you for being so accommodating of my concerns,” Folys tells him, dipping her head in deference. “I should amend my final request, then, to ask that there is no unnecessary murder in your quest.” She’s backpedaling to appease him and is rewarded when his expression softens slightly. It’s not what she would personally want, and she also wasn’t sure where her patron stood on that particular issue, but she was in a bind and was making the best possible choices for the greatest amount of people possible. She looks up at him from under her lashes, biting her lower lip gently. It’s plainly a stall tactic and he’s enjoying the view, but Folys is certain he can see she’s more-or-less on his side. His goals are well-intentioned, and if this is truly the last resort, she can understand his desperation.

“My dear Folys, I loathe killing,” he tells her in an attempt at a reassuring tone. “If your Bladesinger and samurai companions had been dealing with the Xanathar, they would have been slain before they finished their first sentence. You can rest assured that any time I choose to take a life, I have a good reason.”

She isn’t reassured by his words, but he does have a point. He could have easily killed both her nad Nell within moments, but he had stopped to negotiate. Folys begins to stand, showing Jarlaxle her hands as she does. She doesn’t want him to think she’s going to attack, so she moves slowly, bending generously to give him a peek of cleavage. She notices his eyes immediately adjust course, and she’s got a fairly good idea that her stall tactic would have worked provided there wasn’t a hostage. She feels sick to her stomach, but she stands tall as if she has not a care in the world aside from the concern for the hostage’s safety. Her patron would forgive her. They would all forgive her. They would have to, they would hopefully make a similar choice. She hopes. There’s nowhere else to go—her back is to the wall and she’s running on empty.

“Okay.” There’s a defeated finality in the word. She can’t look at Nell, who is no doubt severely disappointed in her choice to partner with Jarlaxle and retrieve the stone. She can’t call to her familiar or her patron, both of whom will surely disown her for this decision. She’s got to handle this herself, like her father who raised her. “Now let her go.”

“As you wish.” He snaps his fingers and his Drow companions get Nell to her feet, untie her, and usher her out the door behind Folys. Nell calls out her name, but the slam of the door behind her cuts off whatever else she had been about to say.

“I must say, I admire your method of committing to a deal,” Jarlaxle drawls, red eyes raking over Foly’s form. She suppresses a shiver—though she isn’t sure if it’s from fear or excitement. “I did not expect to see you again this way, but you are a bouquet of surprises, my dear.” He’s walking in a slow counter-clockwise circle around her, scanning her. As he circles her, scrutinizing, Folys holds her gaze perfectly in front of her, body unmoving. She is used to these looks as well in her line of work, but never when she can’t defend herself. She understands that one hair out of line here and going forwards means that everything she’s bartered for is void. Still, she finds she has her voice, quieter when there’s nobody to impress.

“You could have just sent a letter, I believe that’s how things are typically done. I would have saved you a table.” She would have saved Wylym a table, if only because she knows – knew – he has a good reputation and a wealth of entertaining enough stories. Wylym hadn’t been as intriguing as Nell, nor had he shown as much interest in her history, but he was attractive and he was good with his hands. He would have been fun to have around, if only for the nights when she needed physical release.

He makes his way around to meet her eye-to-eye, expression dark. His scowl is almost as intense as his gaze, and Folys is forced to swallow down her fear.

“This is some game of yours, I am not foolish enough to miss that.” It is the longest three seconds of Folys’ life as all his attention is focused solely on her. The tightness in his lips gives way to a licentious smirk. “But I am foolish enough to play along. You have earned your title as entirely irresistible, my cunning little minx.” He caresses her cheek gently and he seems to enjoy her shuddered breath. Her emotions are swinging between fear and lust, and as he watches her she finds it harder to tell which is more powerful. “This is not a game I mind losing, but one that I assure you I intend to win.”

“This isn’t a game,” she tells him, voice quavering only the slightest bit. At least, it wasn’t a game anymore. It had been her plan initially to buy time from him and have the others handle it, but she’s realizing that she is out of her depth. She’d bartered for their safety in good faith to appease him, and she intended to do as he asked. She didn’t know why he still kept her when they had a verbal agreement.

“Your nerves are dancing under your skin.” He takes a step back, hand leaving her cheek. “I wish to let you know that you are safe here. If it would help, I should remind you that I am a master of illusions. Perhaps you would prefer to see someone less intimidating than myself. A familiar face?” With a few hand gestures his visage changes to Wylym. “Someone entirely new?” He changes into Laerel Silverhand, thick grey curls pillowing around his form. “It’s a mysterious and alluring power. I can be anyone you ask me to be,” he coos, form changing as he steps close once again. “I can even be you.”

He elicits a verbal response when he becomes her. It’s quiet, but the gasp escapes nonetheless from her unwilling lips. She’s looking herself over, checking for some detail that might be wrong as he backs her against the wall. He’s got the details right, and nobody would think to check for authenticity. Folys is stunned and scared of the power he wields, but a small part of her also wants to wield illusory magic.

“Are you admiring the craftsmanship?” Jarlaxle asks in her voice. “Normally with illusions you have to do the guesswork for what you haven’t seen, but I have studied you well.” The leer looks more menacing on her face than it would have on his.

“What do you want from me?” It comes out as a whisper as she meets her own eyes. “I’ve already agreed to the deal.” They hadn’t shaken on it, but Nell’s safety is explicitly tied to Folys’ obedience. She’s mad at herself for having allowed him to get so close before that he could imitate her perfectly. She’s certain that every tattoo and every freckle will be accounted for and in the correct place under the clothes where she can’t see. Study her he did, and she’s ashamed that she had so willingly handed herself over.

“I want many things, Folys. Some things I’ve already told you, and some things that are new. There are many things on the table provided the Stone of Golorr ends up in my possession. I would even offer you those griffin riding lessons Wylym promised.” He laughs, shaking his – her – head slightly. “Don’t worry, I did not steal an identity for him. He is my own fabrication. I had many more planned for you and your group, that was until you so graciously stopped to visit me.”

“Griffin riding?” she manages to get out, almost laughing at the absurdity. Here she is so vulnerable, so scared, and he’s reverting back to an off-handed comment he had made in an effort to bed her. She shakes her head slightly, closing her eyes to avoid looking at herself. “You practically invited me,” she reminds him, voice wavering. She’d only found him because she was chasing after a kidnapped companion. He ignores her statement and leans in closer, pressing his – her – body against her.

“Mainly, I want to know what you’re planning to do now.” He drops his – her – voice to a slowed hush, his left hand taking her right and pressing it against the cool wall. “If your scheme is to stay here, I don’t mind at all.” He’s cooing to her in the voice she uses on her bar patrons. It’s a mix of terrifying, teasing, and enthralling.

‘Is this how I sound?’ She’s not sure what to think of it all. She can certainly see where he might find appeal, watching herself, but it feels so strange. She’s feeling lightheaded as her emotions and thoughts tumble past each other, fogging her ability to think straight. He’s so close, hushed tones the only sound in the room. She can hear her heartbeat quicken over his soft words, ice in her stomach. She’s never been so scared with someone so close. But also, she’s never been so aggressively pursued, nor has she ever turned herself on quite like this before. ‘Now is not the time, body,’ she manages to think, trying to form a clever response to his queries. His right hand starts at her cheek and slowly trails down over the length of her body, resting on her hip. The gentle pressure he holds her with his both alluring and terrifying, exciting her nerves in ways she’s never known.

But she’s soon lost in her own eyes, feeling her mind begin to slip. ‘How is he able to maintain so man different personalities? Did he steal me? Am I being romanced by a past version of myself?’ Her thoughts are becoming more outrageous as she begins to question her own reality. He nips at her ear, breath hot against the sensitive skin. He’s so close it’s maddening, and he’s toying with her just enough to cause her breath to come in quick pants. She is about to spiral off the cliff when she feels a very familiar sensation pressing against her abdomen. They share twin looks of shock for a brief moment before Jarlaxle blushes redder than Folys thought she could turn. But the distraction, however brief, clears her mind enough. This image isn’t quite right. It’s pretty good – really good – but it’s not perfect. And she isn’t feeling like she’s going insane anymore. She’s still scared, still a few steps behind, but he’d given her an opening to try and close the gap.

“Ha-ha, there are some things that not even the most powerful illusions can hide,” he says with a sheepishness he hasn’t displayed in any of his numerous forms, snickering at himself. “I suppose you’ve seen my hand, then. Now don’t ask any more silly questions, Folys. You know what I want.” He’s pressed against her again, kissing her neck in a staccato that runs from just below her ear to her collarbone, hand resuming its trailing actions. He’d been playing her on the knife-edge between fear and lust, and though she’s furious about it, she knows what he wants. Weirdly it’s what she wants too, despite the fact that he is still clearly illusioned to look like her.

“If I’m not supposed to ask questions,” she forces out between stifled moans as he continues to plant kisses between whispered words of his desire, “how am I supposed to ask where you would like me?” This question is a dangerous gamble, if only because she doesn’t know how he’ll react. Especially when he realizes that she’s into it. All of it. He’s terrifying and got a grip on her that she can’t shake – he’s got Nell and the others – but she’s got his full attention, and that is a feeling she could easily become addicted to.

Her words stop him in his tracks, and Folys sees his eyes burn purple as the illusory teal eyes mix with his true ruby eyes. His expression is hungry as he steps back, looking her over once more.

“How bold of you to inquire, my little minx.” He looks away from her briefly, tightening his hold on her wrist. He pulls her to the other door in the room, away from her exit. “Let me show you just where I want you.” She stumbles slightly as she’s pulled along, unable to match his impatient pace.

He pulls her into a dim, candlelit room of faded purples, dark browns, and soft greys. There is a smell of charred darkwood, lavender, and citrus in the air. Warmth emanates from a hearth jutting out from the wall. Large, thick curtains hang in front of the large window, blocking her view of the outside world. The only door in is also the only door out, and Folys realizes just how preposterous this room is to be attached to the interrogation room outside—Jarlaxle must have some control over where the doors attached to the other room lead, but she can’t place the mechanism or magic behind it.

Her gawking at the room is cut short as Jarlaxle tosses her unceremoniously onto the large bed in the middle of the room. Her breath escapes her at the sudden change in location. The bed is soft and luxurious, leagues better than what she’d splurged on to furnish her room at Trollskull Manor.

“Here is where I shall ravish you,” he states. Folys can practically feel the desire rolling off him in waves as he steps up to the foot of the bed. She looks to him – still her mirror image – through her lashes, smiling playfully as he approaches. She pulls herself to a sitting position from the comfort of the mattress and blankets. She doesn’t need to beckon him closer, he’s waltzed right up to her, which means she’ll have to try a different opening move. It seems to Folys that he wants her to be enticing – minx is apparently her new pet name – so she turns the charm up to eleven to comply.

“I very much approve,” she purrs, taking his hand and gently tugging him closer to where she had landed on the bed. “You know just the right place to take a lady.” There’s still a hint of fear in her eyes (she’s essentially in a prison cell, nice as it may be), but it’s overshadowed by the lust mirrored in her reflection. When he is close enough, she grabs the collar of his shirt to pull him in for a kiss, rising to her knees to accommodate the height difference. The grip is firm but nonthreatening, as she has no intentions of leaving or attacking him for the time being. It’s a heated kiss, and Folys doesn’t know where the passion came from. If he had kissed her like this as Wylym, things might have turned out differently. The sting of betrayal might have been worse too, but that wasn’t something she needed to think on.

He’s worked her out of her cloak and tossed it away from the bed, and she’s taken the liberty to pull herself closer to him with his beltloops. He breaks the kiss to get her boots off, pushing her away only briefly. He’s aggressive, but gentle, in his desire to divest her of her clothing, finding different pathways to nip and kiss at her skin. She could almost forget that she is supposed to fear the dangerous man before her.

“Come to bed,” she whispers against his ear, nipping at the lobe. She crooks a finger, beckoning him closer as she lowers herself to the plush mattress. Folys laughs when he doesn’t hesitate to comply.

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