[Story] Jo and the Queen of Amn

nornsavant

The Fallen Tower Tavern bustled and clinked with activity. A hundred voices woven into a low steady rumble. Armored backs hunched around tables, callused fingers pointed to maps and strings of blackened ears, orc and bandit, traded for handshakes, ragged notes of credit or tight wrapped bundles of coin.

Women stood high on the wide balustrade, turning, offering small waves and tossing out half-eaten smiles into the throng, their bare legs on firelight display. From somewhere in the shadows, back with the crates and supplies, a rhythm of strings strummed out into the room mixing with the sharp tang of lemons gone bad and called grog.

Xun’Atar angled his body down into the stout chair, plate armor clattering against the low back as he set his bowl down on the table. The drow’s inky skin swallowed the sconce-light of the tavern and his white hair ran back in sweat matted rows past pointed ears and down over the scratched and dented gorge back.

The woman across the table looked up with a casual glance that instantly hardened into furrowed brows. Her own leather harness and scaled mail showed enough sharp-edged wear to make her blunt features serious and her hazel glare pointed.

“Oi, you lose a bet mate?” She warned in a thick southern Amnian accent. Xun’atar cut luminous golden eyes left and right at the tables crowded with adventuring companies and mercenaries shoulder to spauldered shoulder.
“I assure you, my dear, it is no more pleasant for…”

“Aint no dearie yours.” She said over him then scrunched up half her face into a question mark. “Hey what’s wrong wif your eyes?”

She had three drained tankards in front of her and one emptied bowl with no utensils in sight. A city standard greatsword lay across the table, the symbol of Waukeen scratched into its ricasso just above the quillons.

“It’s a long story.” Said the drow gathering up his wooden spoon.

“Pfft.” Said the woman giving her razor-cut mop a toss. “Aint no story long in this world.”

Xun’Atar blinked bright golden eyes at the statement.

“Huh, alright then. Through misadventure I have found myself the reluctant minion of a powerful other-planar outsider. Thus…’ He said indicating his eyes with the spoon.

“Riiight, see that wasn’t so long. What’s ya name, tin plate?” She said tipping a tankard and peering into it with a frown.

“I am Xun’Atar, famed in the North.” He replied stabbing at the oddly firm stew.

“What was that first part?” She asked.

“Xun’atar?”

“One more time.”

“Xun Atar.”

“Nope, still didn’t get it.”

“Kshoon Ah Taahr” he sounded it out slowly.

“Imma gonna call you Jo.” She replied with a nod, clearly pleased. The drow huffed a short sigh. He had certainly endured greater indignities.

“Very well, as you will it.” He said feeling the age old correctness of obeisance. It was hard to scour away the manners of the underdark. Even a life among the barbaric overlanders had not managed to bend him into a rude savage yet. But then the evening was young.

“And what shall I call you?” He inquired setting the congealed stew aside.

“You can call me another couple of pints.” She said brightening up into a comical grin. “Eh? Yeah? No wait, hang on.” She waved a hand as if to reset the conversation.

“You can call me the Queen of Amn.” She said summoning up the lopsided grin again and pointing a finger. He raised a pale brow. Her face hardened again. “Go on Jo, do it. Call me the Queen.”

“Would you be looking for work, oh Queen?” He said smoothly.

“I’m listening.” She said crossing her corded arms.

“Well I am about to go join some people in assaulting an Orc hole out in the walls. It seems a local mage has lost an apprentice to an Orc shaman in some dust up over an amulet. He will pay to get her back and I could use another blade beside me.” He let the story hang like a long question. She gave a barking laugh.

“That’s story was longer than yours.”

“Are you in, as the alley folk say?”

“Wassinit fer me, Jo? I work for metal. Coins or gear.” She tapped a finger absently on the scratched metal of her sword blade. Xun’Atar made a small show of considering it.

“You can have second pick from my share and some coin.”

“I’ll take first pick from your share, any three items and half the coins.”

“First pick, two items and some coins.” He said evenly. She leaned into the table.

“How many coins?”

“Less than half.”

“How much less?” She was insistent, snapping on the end of his replies.

“Even less now.”

“What?” Her blunt brows shot up.

“Another little bit gone I am afraid.” He said.

“Wait, are we at a quarter? Jo, I want more than a quarter.” She pointed again.

“Another little bit gone. What will happen to your first picks I wonder?” He said letting his glowing gold eyes tighten just enough.

“I don’t like the way you bargain.” She said tightening her eyes as well. “Fine, I’ll keep ya back clear and bring plenty of pain. We split for my picks here in this tavern and I am not your go-fetch. You don’t order me around. Got it?”

“Sounds fair.” He said and stood offering his mailed hand in the way of overlanders. She looked at it with amusement.

“Pfft, try to cheat me and I’ll make two of you worth half as much.”

Xun’Atar withdrew his hand with an odd alchemy of insulted relief and reluctant respect. “Duly noted, oh Queen. We should go. The group will not wait long.”

“Right.” She said standing and lifting the long blade by its grip one handed. Tankards tumbled and clattered to the floor earning a disapproving snort from the Dragonborn behind the bar.

“Oi Cookie!” She called pointing the sword toward the Dragonborn. It sat in her grip like a feather in a wing. “Save my spot at the bar. I’mma comin’ back in a good mood!”

They slipped out into the overcast murk of the tower district and the cry of the barkeep followed them, deep but plaintive.

“Das not mah name!’

beckylunatic

That was quite entertaining.