“I like your scar.”
The dark elf, Lenexa, looked at me quizzically as he scratched the southern tip of ashen tissue that began below his left cheekbone and traveled up his thin face in a V, one path going over his left eye (hidden as it were by a leather patch), the other crossing the bridge of his sharp nose and coming to a rest above his right eyebrow. His trimmed fingernail brushed the scar the wrong way, and it began to peel slightly before he pressed it back down to his flesh.
“You can tell it's fake?”
I nodded. “Yeah. I've spent the majority of my life in circles that required some cosmetic magic to remain undetected. Makes you pretty good at spotting fake scars and such after a while.”
Lenexa shrugged and sat back in his chair. “Well, hopefully none of the filth that we passed on our way here have eyes as sharp as yours.”
The Aleraran and I were seated in a small alcove off to the side in Ettermire's little bright spot, The Bottomless Pit. All sorts of shady clientele walked in and out of this cramped, poorly-lit, smelly, rancid dive. They would get their drinks, conduct whatever secret business they had, go check out the fights downstairs for a bit, and leave cussing and bloodied after they bet on the wrong fighter and tried to take their money back from the wrong asshole.
I eyeballed one guy with a very real set of scars across his chin and lip walk past, his arms full of mugs of ale. “I doubt they even know we exist,” I said to Lenexa as I took a sip of my own drink. Dwarven Forge, to be exact. A brew so potent that two pints could put down just about anything with a pulse. Unless you're like me, and your body can process alcohol faster than it takes for the bitter taste to disappear from your tongue.
I set my half-emptied drink down on the table. “So, how about we get down to business? Would you mind telling me what you're after?”
Lenexa shifted uncomfortably, several strands of black hair falling out from underneath his equally dark hood and across his face. Whatever he was about to ask, it wasn't something he was going to do lightly.
“At the request of the ki--“ The elf caught himself, and dropped his voice into a whisper. “At the request of my employer, I wish to commission you to create a set of weapons.”
He crossed his arms on the table and leaned forward. “As you might be aware of our history, it is one of war with our former brothers, the Raiaerans.”
I waved him off, miserable enough that he decided it was necessary to drag me to this dump in the first place. “I've read enough books to know of the struggles between your two nations. Skip it.”
The dark elf's eyes flashed with annoyance, but it quickly faded as he nodded. “Very well. My employer has heard of your various crafts through certain channels, and while he is reluctant to reach out to you, several within his close council feel that it was necessary in order to avenge our ancestors of the wrongs that the so-called high elves committed against us all those years ago.”
So, whispers of my name and the plague I unleashed on Eiskalt had even made its way to the ebony halls of Dra'khaitan. I leaned forward in kind and jabbed a gloved finger at Lenexa. “If he's heard of me, then your employer is aware of what kind of dangers he faces by contacting me, right?”
He nodded solemnly. “We have considered other options, but none of them suited the kind of campaign he seeks to carry out.”
It was my turn to drop my voice to barely above a whisper. “I'm not saying I won't take a job, but I am a war criminal. If the man you work for were to be caught consorting with me the consequences would be disastrous--not just for him, but for your entire people.”
Lenexa held my gaze tightly. “We are aware of the risks, and we have prepared enough fail-safes and precautionary measures to guarantee that our relationship will remain unknown by anyone other than myself, my employer, and you.”
“For Alerar's sake,” I said as I reached for my drink once more, “I hope so.”
I took a swig of the Forge. “Now, tell me about these weapons.”
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