Age of Mystery: Measure of Being A Manipulative Drow Elf In A Fantasy World

Question. How difficult could it possibly be to grasp a good deal on an open market?

Rhetorical question. You can do that when you want, you only need to know the right way to catch people's interest. At least, that's the theory.

The two slave dancers you have locked up in cages next to you have brought forth a modicum of additional earnings today. Yes, it is true that Lolth considers women superior to men, but all drow also consider themselves to be superior to everything else, so no one should have a problem with a little theatrics. Especially that they have their undies on and are doing this consensually for better meals.

You grin, throwing a sack of money in your hand and catching it again, over and over, as you take the support of your stand with your elbows. Your sharp eyes glance around smugly, looking for a loser to milk out of his money. You don't really have to do this, seeing that they are the ones who flock to you, but you have a personal belief to never let go of a good deal.

Your mind is like a steel trap that catches any opportunity it sees. And today, you caught a big one.

The robe-wearing man with a cloth blindfold over his eyes and holding a quarterstaff seems to be less-than-competent when it comes to trading. "How can I help?" you ask with a high voice.

He looks around, which causes your eyebrows to quirk. Can he really see? The blindfold seems to remove his eyesight, assuming he isn't just covering his eyes because he's blind in the first place. You assume he's old; that is, you assume because you're not human and have no idea of their aging concepts. Suddenly, his head cocks in your direction. "I'll take everyone."

You grin.

Wait. Did he say 'everyone?' "What do you mean by everyone?"

"Are you deaf? We'll make a fine duo, then," he jokes grimly.

Your face twists. This guy isn't joking. He wants everyone. "That'll be, uh..." Quick! Maths! Economics! Counting! Erm... Okay, let's say... how about... "Seven-hundred and eighty gold pieces."

"Don't have that much," he states absently.

D'aww. And here you thought you've caught a big fish. You look at him with a face of hostility, "No pay, no slave."

"Pay, you say?" he beats a rhyme. "I can pay. Not in money, however."

"Tch," you huff, frowning. This is one of those people. He's a con-artist who thinks he outsmarted you with his old, weary monk gig. Oh, no. Not so fast. "Get out of here."

"Are you not interested?"

"Am not," you decisively answer.

"So be it," the old monk says wistfully. He grabs his quarterstaff, then walks away with one hand behind his back. He doesn't look back.

---

A giant spider cruises across the fine, white tablecloth and snatches a piece of roasted beef. Its spinnerets produce a thick web and cover the meat, which it then drags off the table. It provides a small relief from stress while you play with your still-steaming meal; aforementioned roasted beef with some beetroot and baked potatoes. Good food, imported from far away.

Your eyes glance up, only for the tiniest fraction of a second, before they return to your plate in shame. She's staring at you. What did you do to deserve this?

You gulp, trying to avoid any more eye-contact. Mindful that you are being watched, however, you take one potato and consume it, pretending that you are, in fact, enjoying the dinner and not constantly thinking about the whipping-to-be that she will administer on your pale ass if you do anything out of line.

This state of things drags on for a minute. She keeps staring as if her only goal in life was to unnerve you.

But, suddenly. Angaless giggles quietly. For some reason, possibly peer pressure, you join in and giggle, only to quickly ask, "What are we laughing about?"

Angaless stops her quiet giggle slowly, then looks at you with a small simper on her lips. She tries to hide her blush by rubbing her left cheek and turning her head slightly right. "Nothing." Her cute, but iron gaze crushes your heart still in your chest.

You nervously look down at your plate again. You're not sure if she's flirting or intimidating you, but both seem to be working at the same time. It's a weird feeling. It's as if she was baking a turkey, which she will then proceed to have sex with. That's right, she's going to FUCK the FEAR TURKEY!

You gulp. "Uhm, so," you want to speak, but the cuts in.

"More wine?" She raises her hand and a female slave approaches you with a pitcher and, without asking you for permission, pours some wine into your cup, refilling it to the brim.

You were actually going to ask if you can go, with the excuse of having a previous arrangement at this time, but it seems that excuse is out of the window. How do you know? Her eyes tell you. She's not letting you go until she has what she wants. She wants to be satisfied, but you, by all means, hope not in the bedroom. Bad things happen to drow men who sire children - it's called a beheading. Because male trash isn't required when your heir is already produced.

Why would she want you as the father, though? Curse you, good looks!... Or maybe it's the demigod genes? Did she discover your parent's identity? You were pretty sure that mother kept it secret for a reason unless Angaless discovered the truth.

Keep calm.

Above all, gotta keep calm. Or she'll suspect something.

"How are you enjoying your meal?" she asks. The bombardment of queries doesn't stop.

"It's very good," you answer, looking up at her exactly as you sliced into the steak and took a piece to your mouth, munching on it.

Her smile deepens, "Thank you. I made it myself."

You almost spit out the steak. The world doesn't work like that! The High-Priestess doesn't invite you for dinner and she doesn't cook for you! She beats you into submission with a mace and then kills you for being useless and a heretic in Lolth's eyes.

You nod, unsure what to say, so you remain quiet and keep eating to appease her eyes. Despite that, the food actually is pretty decent. It certainly has a good consistency.


"Who do you think will take House Teken'th's place?" You decide to go into politics because, well, why not? You're both adept at them and...

"No politics tonight," she cuts your attempt loose and twiddles her pointing finger from the left to the right, even though you did your best to think of a good topic. "Only us," she states, which tenses you up so much you almost feel like regurgitating your food from shame.

"O-O-Of course," you say, your pale, dark blue cheeks turning a little red. "My lady."

"Call me Angaless."

"Sure, Angaless," you say her name without shame, playing a 50-50 bet that it would appease her rather than anger her. It seems to be the former, as she giggles again, poorly veiling her amusement under her hand, but her eyes betray her.

"You're very shy, Cesimir."

Fuck, she noticed?! But only tonight! This doesn't count! Okay, think of a response. Just... just... look away. Yes, that's right! You look away, forcing something between a bitter smile of flattery and a frown of fear. She takes it that you're embarrased by her words and continues giggling.

The night continues and eventually, you finish eating, tell her goodbye and prepare to leave. Before you step out the door, you are taken by surprise from behind.

What you expected was an attempt at killing you, was, in fact, a hug.

You stop in your tracks, paralyzed by a mixture of fear and turn-on. No, Cesimir! Do not be swayed by this black widow! She will slay you as soon as your procreative business is done! Do not trust her venomous aphrodisiac! She's manipulating you!

This isn't even proper courtship, nor a part of official clergy conduct! You're not supposed to quote-on-quote: 'hug' a nobledrow! This is way too affectionate not only for a High-Priestess, but a drow woman in general. This has got to be a way of getting to you.

Please, go away. Go away. Go away!

You don't wrestle against her body as she hugs you. It's like being enveloped in a spiderweb, yet you can't break out, because the predator will realize it and eat you right away rather than at a later date.


Finally, after some time, she releases you. You spin around to face her, trying your best not to look like you were paralyzed by fear a while ago. She looks up at you, "Next week, same time?"

WHAT? SHE WANTS TO DO IT AGAIN? WHAT IN LOLTH'S UNHOLY MAMMARIES IS THIS?!

"Sure," you squeak lowly, nodding in submission. The witch has her in your palms. Tis' the end of you!

---

As you go home from the date, you come to a sudden halt.

"Gwah!" A moan of pain. "Sh--khugh!" A grunt of injury. Someone's getting beaten up nearby. Let's take a look, out of curiosity.

You go to the nearest dark alley and you find the perpetrator, beating six, armed thugs in full plated armor with his hands and a quarterstaff. As one of them swipes vertically, he sidesteps the attack, grabs the attacker's arm and casts his knee upon it, snapping the bone inside of it in half like a twig, yet leaving the muscles outside unharmed. The attacker screams in anguish and drops to the cold, stone ground.

Another one attacks diametrically with a knife, but the monk swipes his staff at the attacker's hand. The bladed implement flies out and digs into the wall, while the monk delivers a merciless beatdown on the attacker, before finishing him off with a fine thud on the top of the head.

Six, armed, armored men. Defeated, by an old guy with a carved sprig.

Your jaw drops as the monk goes past you.

Hang on, you recognize that guy! "Hold up!" You grab his arm, then realize the mistake and close your eyes, preparing to have your ass whooped for interfering with his personal space.

...

But the beating doesn't come. You peek with your eyes. The old man is looking at you awkwardly. "What?"

"How did you do that?!" you ask, shocked.

"Do what?"

"That!" You point at the six beaten drow bandits.

"Uh, I..." He processes the information he is about to give, then settles, "I beat them up?"

"No shit, you beat them up! Where did you learn that?"

"In my monastery."

"They teach you to beat six, fully armed and dangerous men in a monastery?"

He mutters something that might be: "Twelve, actually," before saying, "It's called martial arts, m'boy."

"Your boy?" You suddenly step back and pridefully fold your arms, offended. "How do you know I'm younger than you? I'm a drow and you're blind!"

"Are you not younger than me, then?" he asks.

Your eyebrows quirk in realization. "Shit, he's right," you mutter to yourself, which he heard anyway.

"I don't have time for this," the old monk says, then turns away.

"Hang on! You wanted those slaves, right?! Teach me this and I will give them to you!"

The monk stops. Several seconds of silence fill you up with trepidation and hope to learn these moves at the same time. "Okay," he says approvingly, then nods.

"Really?!" you squeal with joy.

"No," he answers, turning to you with a scrunched up, angry face. "You're not suitable to be my apprentice."

"Why not?!"

"You are drow," he answers, then points to the armed bandits without looking in their direction. "You're no different from them. You're all the same, for Ao's sake."

Ao? Isn't that the overdeity? Whatever. You shrug. Let's try to show him otherwise.


"I'm different! I help!"

"Help by enslaving people and selling them for profit?"

"Well, you were going to buy!"

"I was going to free your slaves," he corrects. As expected, the monk is a goody-two-shoes. He walks away into the night, but you get the feeling you'll see him again. More than that, you get the feeling you'll convince him one day.

---

Next day, you go to the market and sell eleven slaves in the morning, making a fair bit of profit. What do you do after that?

[] Drink wine like a douch.
[] Write a Flumph Genocide plan.
[] Build intrigue, brick by brick, to take over your own House.
[] Investigate the High-Priestess' infatuation with someone as unremarkable (in this society, that is,) as you. Will she cut your head off after the deed is done? Is there an ulterior motive or a hook? Any strings attached?
[] Write-in.