Ezias Treestrider Reporting,
Here’s a small excerpt from one of my favorite R.A. Salvatore Books; Servant of the Shard:
—<O-O>—
The halfling was surprised to see her fingers trembling as she carefully unrolled the note.
“Why Artemis, I did not even know you could write,” Dwahvel said with a snicker, for the lines on the parchment were beautifully constructed, if a bit spare and efficient for Dwahvel’s flamboyant flair. “My dear Dwahvel,” she read aloud, and she paused and considered the words, not certain how she should take that greeting. Was it a formal and proper heading, or a sign of true friendship? It occurred to the halfling then how little she really understood what went on inside of the heart of Artemis Entreri. The assassin had always claimed that his only desire was to be the very best, but if that was true why didn’t he put the Crystal Shard to devastating use soon after acquiring it? And Dwahvel knew that he had it. Her contacts at Dallabad had described in detail the tumbling of the crystalline towers, and the flight of a human, Entreri, and a dark elf, whom Dwahvel had to believe must be Jarlaxle.
All indications were that Entreri’s plan had succeeded.
Even without her eyewitness accounts and despite the well-earned reputations of his adversaries, Dwahvel had never doubted the man.
The halfling moved to her doorway and made certain it was locked. Then she took a seat at her small night table and placed the parchment flat upon it, holding down the ends with paperweights fashioned of huge jewels, and read on, deciding to hold her analysis for the second read through.
My dear Dwahvel,
And so the time has come for us to part ways, and I do so with more than a small measure of regret. I will miss our talks, my little friend. Rarely have I known one I could trust enough to so speak what was truly on my mind. I will do so now, one final time, not in any hopes that you will advise me of my way, but only so that I might more clearly come to understand my own feelings on these matters . . . but that was always the beauty of our talks, was it not?
Now that I consider those discussions, I recognize that you rarely offered any advice. In fact, you rarely spoke at all but simply listened. As I listened to my own words, and in hearing them, in explaining my thoughts and feelings to another, I came to sort them through. Was it your expressions, a simple nod, an arched eyebrow, that led me purposefully down different roads of reasoning?
I know not.
I know not-that has apparently become the litany of my existence, Dwahvel. I feel as if the foundation upon which I have built my beliefs and actions is not a solid thing, but one as shifting as the sands of the desert. When I was ounger, I knew all the answers to all the questions. I existed in a world of surety and certainty. Now that I am older, now that I have seen four decades of life, the only thing I know for certain is that I know nothing for certain.
It was so much easier to be a young man of twenty, so much easier to walk the world with a purpose grounded in-
Grounded in hatred, I suppose, and in the need to be the very best at my dark craft. That was my purpose, to be the greatest warrior in all of the world, to etch my name into the histories of Faerun. So many people believed that I wished to achieve that out of simple pride, that I wanted people to tremble at the mere mention of my name for the sake of my vanity.
They were partially right, I suppose. We are all vain, whatever arguments we might make against the definition. For me, though, the desire to further my reputation was not as important as the desire-no, not the desire, but the need- truly to be the very best at my craft. I welcomed the increase in reputation, not for the sake of my pride, but because I knew that having such fear weaving through the emotional armor of my opponents gave me even more of an advantage.
A trembling hand does not thrust the blade true.
I still aspire to the pinnacle, fear not, but only because it offers me some purpose in a life that increasingly brings me no joy. It seems a strange twist to me that I learned of the barren nature of my world only when I defeated the one person who tried in so many ways to show that very thing to me. Drizzt Do’Urden-how I still hate him!-perceived my life as an empty thing, a hollow trapping with no true benefit and no true happiness. I never really disagreed with his assessment, I merely believed that it did not matter. His reason for living was ever based upon his friends and community, while mine was more a life of the self. Either way, it seems to me as if it is just a play, and a pointless one, an act for the pleasure of the viewing gods, a walk that takes us up hills we perceive as huge, but that are really just little mounds, and through valleys that appear so very deep, but are really nothing at all that truly matters. All the pettiness of life itself is my complaint, I fear.
Or perhaps it was not Drizzt who showed me the shifting sands beneath my feet. Perhaps it was Dwahvel, who gave to me something I’ve rarely known and never known well.
A friend? I am still not certain that I understand the concept, but if I ever bother to attempt to sort through it, I will use our time together as a model.
Thus, this is perhaps a letter of apology. I should not have forced Sharlotta Vespers upon you, though I trust that you tortured her to death as I instructed and buried her far, far away.
How many times you asked me my plans, and always I merely laughed, but you should know, dear Dwahvel, that my intent is to steal a great and powerful artifact before other interested parties get their hands upon it. It is a desperate attempt, I know, but I cannot help myself, for the artifact calls to me, demands of me that I take it from its current, less-than-able wielder.
So I will have it, because I am indeed the best at my craft, and I will be gone, far, far from this place, perhaps never to return.
Farewell, Dwahvel Tiggerwillies, in whatever venture you attempt. You owe me nothing, I assure you, and yet I feel as if I am in your debt. The road before me is long and fraught with peril, but I have my goal in sight. If I attain it, nothing will truly bring me any harm. Farewell!
-AE
Dwahvel Tiggerwillies pushed aside the parchment and wiped a tear from her eye, and laughed at the absurdity of it all. If anyone had told her months before that she would regret the day Artemis Entreri walked out of her life, she would have laughed at him and called him a fool.
But here it was, a letter as intimate as any of the discussions Dwahvel had shared with Entreri. She found that she missed those discussions already, or perhaps she lamented that there would be no such future talks with the man. None in the near future, at least.
Entreri would also miss those talks by his own words.
That struck Dwahvel profoundly. To think that she had so engaged this man-this killer who had secretly ruled Calimport’s streets off and on for more than twenty years.
Had anyone ever become so close to Artemis Entreri?
None who were still alive, Dwahvel knew.
She reread the ending of the letter, the obvious lies concerning Entreri’s intentions. He had taken care not to mention anything that would tell the remaining dark elves that Dwahvel knew anything about them or the stolen artifact, or anything about his proffering of the Crystal Shard. His lie about his instructions concerning Sharlotta certainly added even more security to Dwahvel, buying her, should the need arise, some compassion from the woman and her secret backers.
That thought sent a shudder along Dwahvel’s spine. She really didn’t want to depend on the compassion of dark elves!
It would not come to that, she realized. Even if the trail led to her and her establishment, she could willingly and eagerly show Sharlotta the letter and Sharlotta would then see her as a valuable asset.
Yes, Artemis Entreri had taken great pains to cover Dwahvel’s efforts in the conspiracy, and that, more than any of the kind words he had written to her, revealed to her the depth of their friendship.
“Run far, my friend, and hide in deep holes,” she whispered.
She gently rerolled the parchment and placed it in one of the drawers of her crafted bureau. The sound of that closing drawer resonated hard against Dwahvel’s heart.
She would indeed miss Artemis Entreri.
—<O-O>—
My thoughts about this part is so hard to put to words right now so I’ll probably just save that for later…
Anyways…
I love R.A. Salvatore’s work. In every page of the book, you can always pick up something that tends to be true in our society, something that tends to be useful and something to reflect on. From the eccentric Harkle Harpell to the opportunistic and sly Jarlaxle Baenre, there is always someone people can relate to. I can’t wait to get my hands on more of his books-
Well… Time to go to class….
Ezias Treestrider, over and out.
Amin Harmuva Onalle E' Cormamin 