ELROS: My calling?
ATREIDES: Oh come; you know what I'm talking about. The Lady of Strategy looks after all those who do her honor in battle. For someone such as myself, that is at the head of an army with a banner flying in the wind. For you, that work lies in the shadows.
ELROS: Ah, yes. I have been thinking about it. Thinking, less about my commitment than about my comrades objections.
ATREIDES: I know. Sage understands; he is smart enough to see the rightness of it, even if it is not the path he would choose. And I think Anthynian couldn't care less; he is so consumed by his hatred of the Dragon Cult that it seems he has accepted, is even eager for, killing.Anacard seemed to think that an assassin is clearly an immoral man, though he fails to see that it is little different from the way a hunter stalks an elk. And you know how I feel. Assassination is part of warfare. Many times, if you can cut off the head of an army, the army itself will die. One strike, one kill, and an entire war could be won. Such elegance could only please the Red Knight.
ELROS: That was my conclusion. The morality of an act is in its intentions, not in the, ah, execution.
ATREIDES: A pun! A very good pun indeed! But I was thinking about some of my old lessons back at the Citadel, and I remembered something. How much do you know of history? Elven history?
ELROS: Not much. Found the subject rather boring, really. Why do you ask?
ATREIDES: Because you are not alone in your work. Because hundreds of years before you decided to stalk and kill for the right reasons, for your queen, there was the Nevaylair.
ELROS: (Chuckles and nearly chokes on his wine) That's N'Vaelahr, Atreides. The N is more or less silent; it in elision into the first consonant. un-VAE-lahr.
ATREIDES: (Hearty laugh) Yes, well, my apologies. My Elvish sucks almost as much cock as that serving wench over yonder. (pauses to gaze appreciatively at a red-haired barmaid as she bends over to pick up a tray)
ELROS: (Rolls eyes; smirks) Must you humans always be so vulgar?
ATREIDES: (grins drunkenly) You should try it sometime; you might like it.
ELROS: Not with a woman like that. Human women are so... coarse. You should see the ladies of the Elven Court in Evermeet, Atreides. Beauty like that exists nowhere else on Faerun. But we digress.
ATREIDES: (still staring at the barmaid) Whah? Oh, right. The N'Vaelahr. "Shadow soldiers," they were called, in the histories. Formed during the Weeping War, just before Myth Drannor fell. It was said that there were never more than thirty N'Vaelahr agents at a time, but that they were among the most hated elves by the devils in the Army of Darkness. They gathered intelligence, scouted enemy positions, and assassinated the mezzoloths and nycoloths that led the Army. Less than thirty--and equal to any legion in the Army of Arms, the... whatdoyoucallit... the Ackvelair.
ELROS: Akh'Velahr. The K is soft. I know you're sodden with ale and lust, but /do /try not to slaughter my language, hm? (he says with mocking sarcasm)
ATREIDES: Hah-HAH! (you have to imagine the Sean Connery accent). In any case, I've no idea if they still exist. Whether they do or not, you're clearly an heir to their legacy--a terrifying weapon of elvish subtlety, a swift shadow and bright knife, a soldier whose army is his wits and his skills, a--
ELROS: Stop, stop, you hack of a poet! (laughs)
ATREIDES: The ladies say I have a silver tongue, you know. And that's not all they say about my tongue... (waves his hand to stop a protest) But you ARE a N'Vaelahr, as far as I'm concerned. If the order is dead, then you are one of the ancient heroes reborn. And if it exists still, serving the Queen and her people in Faerun... then perhaps you should seek them out. Think on that, Elros, while I woo that red-headed spurnarmor.
ELROS: (smiles faintly, leans back into the shadow cast by the fire, sips his elvish wine, and thinks)
