Nessalir the Red

Gradually, the scholar from Remura awoke to the sounds of a Northern city. They were not, on the whole, especially different from the sounds of a Remuran metropolis. No matter what city in the world one occupied, the same things could be heard: the low murmur of a dozen different conversations, the clatter of wooden wheels upon dirt and stone, the distant shouts of peddlers hawking their wares.

For a moment before consciousness fully returned to him, Iarius believed himself to be in a Remuran city. He thought of the great city of Remur, where he had spent years studying in the Acadaemium, before his mind went to Paeliig, recently conquered, the empire's foothold in these barbarian lands.

Yet, he soon recognized that he was not in either of those cities. Memories came trickling back into his mind, and Iarius recalled that only a few days ago, he had arrived in a city called Grjeil alongside his companion, the half-dragon mercenary known as Nessalir the Red.

Yes, it was all coming back to him now. The warrior woman had slain a giant while on the road, but at the cost of great injuries to her own person. She had come here seeking work, but had been forced to spend a few days at an inn named The Brigands' Remorse, where she rested and recuperated.

Iarius opened his eyes, fully expecting to see the room they shared, and it was only in the instant before his eyes opened that he realized something else:

He could not feel a bed under his back.

Indeed, Iarius opened his eyes to find himself somewhere unfamiliar. It was a dark, dusty room of wooden construction, and he himself was lying on the wooden floor. His hands were uncomfortably behind his back, tied together with rope or cloth, numb under his own weight. Identical bindings lashed his heels together, and one around his face and mouth served as a gag.

Iarius sat up, doing his best to stamp down the panic rising now within him. This was a small room, with a simple door only a few feet away. His hands prickled as blood began slowly to flow back into them, bringing feeling once more to his fingers and palms.

Where was he?

Desperately, he cast his mind back to the night before. He was a scholar of the Remuran Acadaemium, well-educated and trained in the arts of reason and philosophy. Surely, he could deduce how he had come to be in this predicament.

Fragments of memory came back to him. He recalled Nessalir, drinking deeply of a mug of mead in the inn's common area. "My shoulder feels wonderful," she'd assured him. "This calls for a celebration, I think."

And there were others drinking. The Brigands' Remorse was a bustling inn, popular with travelers and other merchants. Iarius recalled the sweet, honeyed taste of mead passing between his lips.

Some men had approached him. Three men, he thought. They were of a broad, rough-looking sort, with thick beards and callused hands. Friendly smiles though. They'd asked Iarius where he was from, and seemed surprised when he told them Remura.

Not that he could blame them. Iarius had done his best to keep his chin shaved, as was the custom of Remuran men. But there was scant opportunity for such grooming in the Northern Lands, and so patches of fur had sprouted obscenely from his cheeks and jaw, itching all the while. He had no idea how these barbarian men could stand it.

"What brings you this far North?" asked one of his new companions, who had a deep red, nearly brown, beard. "Are you a merchant? You don't have the look of a sailor."

"I am a scholar," said Iarius. "I am traveling your lands to observe them, to learn of your customs and your ways, to record all the details of these lands that I witness."

"By yourself?" asked a man with a dark, graying beard. "This sounds like dangerous work."

"It is," Iarius agreed, and he was pleased at the interest these men were showing. He took a deep drink of mead and boasted: "But I am protected. Do you see the mercenary, Nessalir the Red, over there? She is a virem draconem, what your people call drakkowar. And she has vowed to ensure my safety."

The men's eyes widened, and Iarius was proud to know that he had impressed. As the night passed, they drank together, and Iarius regaled them with tales of Nessalir's exploits, of the grand and dangerous adventures to which he had borne witness.

And then… nothing. Iarius could not recall what had happened after that. He only knew that the mead had kept coming, and that he had talked and boasted well into the night. His head ached, and his hands stung, and he tried desperately to recall how he'd ended up tied up and held captive in some room he'd never seen before.

Presently, the door opened, and the man with the deep red beard stepped inside. He smiled when he saw Iarius.

"Awake, are we, scholar?" he asked. "I do apologize for our behavior." He gave a deep, exaggerated bow. It was the sort of a bow a man gave only in mockery. "It's just that you saw Nessalir the Red had vowed to protect you, and I imagine a mercenary as famed as she must possess quite some coin, yes? Worry not, once she's paid, you may go free."

He then met Iarius' eyes, and his smile twisted into something cruel. "Of course, if she decides you're not worth the effort, we'll have no use for you, and be forced to cut your throat. You understand, naturally. It's simply business."

With that, the man left the room, closing the door behind him, and Iarius could do nothing but stare at the wall and pray to the stars above that his companion would come to his rescue.