In which a few colours start to run.
The wizard was dead. Artemis had already gone through her pockets and turned up nothing of use, though now Jarlaxle had decided to rummage as well, citing the dubiously existent extra-sensory benefits of his eyepatch. Artemis left him to it.
He leaned in the doorway of the ruined tower they’d finally cornered the mage in and stared out at the darkening sky. Tomorrow they’d venture back to town and throw the wizard’s corpse at someone in charge of civic purse strings—no more magical harassment on the roads courtesy of Jarlaxle and Artemis, everybody say thank you very much. It was an interesting feeling, this being vaguely helpful business.
“Hm,” said Jarlaxle. Artemis pinched the bridge of his nose.
“What did you do?”
“I did nothing, it was the wizard.”
Artemis cast a doubtful look over his shoulder. Jarlaxle stood over the dead wizard, holding out the edges of his cloak with an expression of utmost distaste twisting his face. The rainbow sheen of the material was running, the colours blurring into one another, and as Artemis watched, a splatter of colour dripped to the floor, narrowly missing Jarlaxle’s boot.
“Why is it doing that?”
“Because of the wizard, abbil, keep up. Now come and help me get this off before it gets any worse.”
“Take your own clothes off.” Artemis turned back to the grey sky.
“It is melting in my hands, Artemis, I would appreciate your assistance.”
With a heavy sigh, Artemis pushed off from the wall and took his time crossing the few feet to where an increasingly agitated Jarlaxle plucked at his cloak. It was indeed melting—when Artemis tried to pull it off, it clung to his hands like bad dough and, what was worse, left smears of colour on his skin. Grimacing, he dug his fingers in and yanked, and between his tugging and Jarlaxle’s squirming, they managed to get the damn thing off. It hit the ground with a wet slap, splattering a rainbow across the floor and their shins.
Artemis glared at the reds and purples and bright blues coating his hands, the emerald and orange streaks up his forearms. A splash of eye-searing yellow stained his leather cuirass.
“At last we get some colour into your wardrobe,” Jarlaxle said.
“You can have it back.”
Before Jarlaxle could stop him, Artemis snapped his hand out and wiped a palmful of magical colour over the drow’s chest, bare as it was beneath his high-cut vest. Jarlaxle let out a highly undignified yelp he would later deny was a shriek, then darted forwards.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” Artemis backed away—not fast enough. Jarlaxle grabbed his face in both hands and smeared his thumbs over Artemis’ cheeks, then dragged his palms down his neck.
“Beautiful, abbil, you make a perfectly lovely canvas.”
Artemis tackled him. He went down with a yell and a drow curse that would have made Lolth blush, and the two of them rolled across the tower floor. The magical stains of colour did not lessen, no matter how many times Artemis swiped his hands over every accessible inch of Jarlaxle’s skin. Quite how they were going to get clean afterwards was a concern for later, however—right now the only thing that mattered to Entreri was getting as much of it on his idiot peacock of a partner as possible.
Jarlaxle gave as good as he got, and by the end of it they were flat on their backs, rainbow-drenched and panting. Artemis suspected he had multi-coloured handprints on his ass; certainly he’d left his own on Jarlaxle’s.
“Truce?” Jarlaxle asked. Artemis glanced over—he was grinning beneath the paint, and there was a great hot pink streak bisecting his face, brow to jaw, right across the eyepatch. Annoyingly, it suited him.
“If I am still covered in this stuff in the morning—” Artemis started. Jarlaxle rolled his eye.
“Yes, yes, knife, uncomfortable places, unimaginable violence upon my person—stop flirting and kiss me already.”
Artemis fervently hoped the colours would fade by morning. The handprints Jarlaxle left him with next would take some explaining, otherwise.