Erdan Amakiir hugged a tall chimney and looked down at the growing shadows. Even here, in their precious Waterdeep, things could lurk in the shadows. Things best not encountered, best not even thought of. Especially here in the Dock Ward. Stick to the rooftops, Erdan thought. You'll be facing enough danger when you reach your destination. No need to compound it.

The dark elf leapt silently across a thin alley to the sloped rooftop across the way and landed in a crouch. The wooden roof creaked beneath him but it held. He'd made his way this far downtown and was determined to at least make it the last few streets to the docks themselves, where he'd be safe, where the threats in the shadows would be his own kind. Until, of course, his own kind became the peril, all based on the mood of Jarlaxle Baenre, who could just as easily laugh in Erdan's face at the news he was delivering as take his head in the blur of a blade.

A light noise, a footfall perhaps, made its way from the roof he'd just left. Erdan stayed in his crouch and pulled the hood of his cloak up above his white hair. Might as well be a blaring lantern on a night such as this one. Damned fool, he thought, getting lazy, distracted. He was missing Zurkan tonight, and his mother, who'd begged him not to come down to Waterdeep. And stay here, mother? To watch our city die? He could still hear the contempt in his voice and knew she deserved better from what would be the last time she'd ever hear her son. Some of the other mercenaries noticed he'd lost his edge lately, had his mind on his mother's death and was therefore a bit slower with a blade, not quite as silent scurrying across a rooftop. The few who pointed this out to Erdan ended up backing down or did not live long enough to repeat their accusations. This wasn't the life for one who feared a killing or two. Nor was it the life for a man who'd lost his edge. Tonight, though, all that might be moot, depending upon Jarlaxle's mood.

When he reached the port, he dropped to the ground directly in front of one of the night guards, a young drow that Erdan failed to recognize. The pup reached to draw a small blade, short sword most likely, but Erdan reached out and grabbed the young one's hand before it had even grasped the hilt. Erdan smiled and the guard frowned and relaxed his arm.

"Never forget, lad," Erdan whispered. "You're setting your sights in every direction. That includes up." He smiled and ran down the pier past the first two ships until he reached The Hellraiser. 

"I've news for Captain Zord," he loudly announced to the watch. They were always to use Jarlaxle's human alias when around or on the ships. Just in case one of the hired performers was within earshot. 

A second deckhand led him down into the bowels of the ship and knocked on the last door, an ornate gold plated thing that fit perfectly with what little Erdan knew of Jarlaxle's taste. When the door opened, the leader of the Bregan D'aerthe was standing with his back turned, looking out the row of short windows at the back of the room. A large table full of maps stood between them, and the walls - full of books - pressed in on Erdan once the door closed.

"Captain Zord," Erdan said.

Jarlaxle turned around slowly and Erdan saw that he was in fact no longer in disguise as the human sea captain. "You can call me by my true name here in my quarters, Erdan," he smiled. Jarlaxle's smiles had always chilled Erdan. They seemed like preludes to something sinister. "Come in," he gestured. "Grab yourself a seat. Glass of wine?" He held up a cup. "I've fallen in love with this brand, some halfling family in Undercliff makes it. Silly little things, halflings, but they know their food and drink. Have you haad much interaction with their kind?"

Erdan shook his head, sat, and waved off the drink. "I have bad news, I'm afraid." He hoped his voice sounded calm, that Jarlaxle hadn't noticed the nerves in his voice.

Jarlaxle's mood instantly shifted and he became more serious, dour even. "Something about the stone, I assume." 

Erdan could only nod and lower his gaze.

"Of course." Jarlaxle scoffed, and turned his back to look out the windows again. When he turned back, he was smiling again. "I'm sorry about your mother, Erdan. A great woman. One of the wisest elves I've ever met. Not a big fan of mine, of course. But still, a great loss."

Erdan muttered a quiet thank you. 

"Now out with it. Give me the details and break my heart, Erdan."

"Nar'l Xbrindas tells me it's gone."

"Gone." Jarlaxle sighed, removed his hat and ran his hand though his hair. Then he played with the large white feather in the hat's band, as if he had lost interest.  Erdan had worked for him long enough to know that this was when Jarlaxle was most attentive, and most dangerous. "Do you trust N'Arl? He's been wrong before."

"I do this time. He tells me he was in Xanathar itself's presence when it found out. They were down in that gladiator pit they have down there, full of cult members, just about to start one of those slaughters it likes to watch."

"The Pit of Blood and Fortune?"

"Hmm?"

"Xanathar calls it the Pit of Blood and Fortune." Jarlaxle shook his head and frowned. "Blood and Fortune. Not Fortune and Blood, mind you. Blood and Fortune. In that order. What kind of monster does that? We're no saints, but we don't rejoice in spilling blood. Anyway..."

"Well, as you know, Xanathar is always invisible these days, even around his cult. So all N'Arl knows is a messenger came, delivered what must've been some truly horrible news to an invisible Xanathar and Xanathar reappeared. It killed the messenger, then turned that ray thing it shoots on everyone: the gladiator and spectator alike. Just killing its own followers  N'Arl barely escaped and is pretty shaken up. I guess everyone thought Xanathar had gone completely mad until it sped over to a Zhentarim envoy who was there as a gesture of good will and incinerated him on the spot while screaming about them stealing the stone. 

"By the gods! Xanathar's basically declared war on the Zhentarim. Well, that's in our favor, at least." He smacked the table with his open hand suddenly. "By Mask, I thought we had it this time!" Then he threw his head back and laughed. "Oh, well, 'all things excellent are as difficult as they are rare', they say. Thank you, Erdan. I know it's not an easy task, delivering such bad news. Please, sleep on board the ship tonight if you're so inclined. Unless you have your heart set on a young Waterdavian lady for the evening."

Erdan smiled and shook his head.

"Or gentleman, if that's your inclination."

"I've no one waiting, Jarlaxle."

The faction leader put his hat back on, half-turned away, and Erdan knew he'd been dismissed. "Well, send one of my men in. Tell them I'd like another bottle of that wine. They'll know which I mean."

 Erdan felt a great big burden disappear from, rose from his chair and turned to leave.

"And, oh, Erdan?" Jarlaxle said after him.

Erdan turned.

"Any theories out there on where the stone may be now? Other than Xanathar's ridiculous claim about the Zhentarim of course."

Erdan shook his head and began to say no. That's when he noticed the pain in his throat and realized Jarlaxle had pulled his rapier and thrust too quickly for him to see. It was pointing directly into his neck.

"Sorry about this, Erdan Amakiir. Can't say you really deserve this," he said to the corpse. " But I do have a policy, you see: kill any messenger that brings me bad news. At least news bad enough to make me angry. Not because you deserve it, but because bottling up such anger isn't good for anyone. Can't say I dislike the sheer randomness of it all. Seems appropriate in a world such aas this, don't you think.?"

Jarlaxle Baenre put his foot on the chest of the corpse that had been Erdan Amakiir and pulled the point of his weapon free. Wiping the blood from the rapier, he stepped over the lifeless drow to call one of his men for the wine, and to remove the body.

"And do say hello to your bitch mother I had killed, won't you?" he whispered as he stepped back over the remains of Erdan Amakiir.