Zaknafein's attention is now solely on the other drow. He can tell that Jarlaxle is older, that time has passed even without having Drizzt to tell him so. The weapon's master steps even closer, wanting to see him more clearly. Different yes, older yes, but still Jarlaxle. Somehow the brigand had managed to hold onto a deeper sense of self through the centuries than he'd ever been able to.
"Truthfully, I do not know the why, only that I was the first of us to be brought here." The truth of the when he'd been taken is hidden under his shirt, the frightful, twisted scar over his heart and those acquired as he'd been forced to endure well beyond his own death.
It honestly surprises him to see Jarlaxle so emotional, especially over him. He had retreated into his own, personal hell for so long he'd practically forgotten that once the other drow had actually cared when they were young, and there's part of him doesn't want to believe that Jarlaxle still could to such a degree.
He is such a fool.
"It is I, old friend. Not Zin'carla, or even the Weapons Master of House Do'Urden." He says softly, but with conviction. "For now I am just Zaknafein."
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"Truthfully, I do not know the why, only that I was the first of us to be brought here." The truth of the when he'd been taken is hidden under his shirt, the frightful, twisted scar over his heart and those acquired as he'd been forced to endure well beyond his own death.
It honestly surprises him to see Jarlaxle so emotional, especially over him. He had retreated into his own, personal hell for so long he'd practically forgotten that once the other drow had actually cared when they were young, and there's part of him doesn't want to believe that Jarlaxle still could to such a degree.
He is such a fool.
"It is I, old friend. Not Zin'carla, or even the Weapons Master of House Do'Urden." He says softly, but with conviction. "For now I am just Zaknafein."