Nessalir the Red

Nessalir awoke, as she often did, entangled in a woman's arms.

It had been a good night, as far as these things went. She drank, made merry, and retired with a beautiful woman on her arm. Nessalir absentmindedly stroked the woman's hair as she stared at the ceiling, lost in thought.

It had been a few days since they'd arrived in Grjeil, and her time in the city thus far had been less busy than she'd have liked. Nessalir had found one or two small jobs, which had mostly consisted of looking intimidating while her employer negotiated with someone, but she had come here looking for more lucrative work than that.

Perhaps this had been a mistake. In a place like Grjeil, all power was set, and the hierarchies of both legitimate and illegitimate society were known to all. An outsider, even one as famed as Nessalir, had little place inserting herself into the city's affairs. In fact, her fame may even be working against her--prospective employers might worry about how their rivals's reaction upon learning of her presence.

It was a frustrating situation. Nessalir sighed as she realized that she may need to move on from Grjeil sooner than she'd expected. Perhaps a ship could take her and Iarius to Camdor, or List, or maybe to the islands of Síthat Teilur.

She contemplated how she would extricate herself from the bed when the woman--Mathilde was her name, Nessalir now recalled--stirred. Her green eyes fluttered open, and she made a sound that was half-groan, half-sigh as she brushed her flaxen hair from her face and stretched her arms.

"Good morning, Lady Dragon," Mathilde said, sitting up. The bedsheets fell from her, exposing her soft breasts. Nessalir smiled, recalling the feel of them in her hands.

"It is a fine morning," said the drakkowar. "I trust you enjoyed your night?"

"Of course," said Mathilde. She reached out and traced a finger down the musculature of Nessalir's bicep. "Trust a woman to know her way around a woman's body. I've half a mind to keep you in this bed for the rest of the day."

As pleasant as the thought may be, Nessalir had already slaked her lusts on Mathilde the night before. "Unfortunately, there is work to be done today." She threw off her sheets and stood, aware as she did so of Mathilde's eyes upon her nude form, lingering on the muscles of her back and the red tail that emerged from the end of her spine.

As Nessalir began to clothe herself, she heard the other woman sigh. "A pity. But I suppose you are correct. I have work I must attend to as well."

Nessalir grunted in acknowledgement as she donned a tunic and trousers. She sat on the bed and laced up her boots.

"Do not let me keep you, then," said Mathilde. "I'm certain that boy of yours must be up by now and wondering where you've gone off to."

There was a subtle tone of hurt in her voice, an irritation that Nessalir was so quick to leave the bedroom and put the night behind her, but she ignored it. The drakkowar had taken many companions to bed in her time, both men and women, but few were the ones she allowed herself to grow attached to. Most understand their dalliances were just that--small distractions for a single night. As for the ones who desired more, she'd long-since realized that a swift and clean break was the most effective way of disabusing of any romantic misunderstandings.

"It's been a pleasure," Nessalir said, and she left the room.

Downstairs, the inn was quieter than it had been the night before. The drink no longer flowed and the revelers no longer made merry. A pair of travelers sat in a corner table with their heads down, eating porridge and doubtless nursing hangovers. An older woman swept the floor, and a man stood at the bar, wiping it down with a cloth.

"What do you have for breakfast?" Nessalir asked, taking a seat before him.

"Porridge," the man grunted.

"What kind?"

"The porridge kind," replied the bartender. Then, perhaps feeling a bit poor for his curt response, he added: "It's got honey in it."

"I'll have a bowl, then," said Nessalir, placing a coin on the counter. The man took it and nodded to the woman sweeping, who hurried off to retrieve the meal.

"Has my companion awoken yet?" Nessalir asked. "A Remuran man with black curls, looks like he'd lose a wrestling match against a fly, answers to the name Iarius?"

The bartender shook his head. "Haven't seen him since last night."

"That's unusual," said Nessalir. "We've traveled together for some time now, and always he has awoken before me."

Especially when I've taken a companion for the night, she added silently, ignoring Mathilde as she walked down the stairs and left the Brigand's Remorse.

"Well, I can't say if he's come back yet."

Nessalir frowned. "What do you mean?"

The bartender shrugged. "Your man left the inn last night. He was drinking with some men, looked to be getting along well. Shortly after you retired, he and his new friends all went off somewhere."

That was the last thing Nessalir wanted to hear. The barmaid returned and placed a bowl of porridge in front of her, but she ignored it. "These men," she asked, doing her best to keep her voice level, "were any of them known to you?"

Her change in demeanor did not go unnoticed by her host. His eyes gleamed with a sudden interest as he regarded. "I may have known one," he said. "But an awful lot happened last night. I'm not sure if I can say for certain."

Nessalir placed another coin on the counter.

"Then again," the bartender went on, taking the coin. "I am fairly confident that one of them was Byrk Nohrson. Rough fellow, that one. Runs with a gang that calls themselves the Duskers. Petty louts, too small time for anyone to really care about. They like to hang out around the Eastern canal, where the big oak tree is."

"Appreciated," said Nessalir. She stood and made her way to the front door, the porridge sitting untouched on the counter, growing cold.