Nessalir the Red

Nessalir was not familiar with Jugara the Wise. Whoever the man had been, clearly he had done something to earn himself a statue. It did not, however, appear that his feats were impressive enough to ensure anyone maintained that statue.

Somewhere beneath all the vines and weather-faded stone, she could make out the general shape of a man who was holding either a club or a scroll in one hand, and what was either a branch or a snake in the other. The passage of time had smoothed out what Nessalir assumed was his beard, such that the man now appeared to have some sort of growth on his neck. It put her in mind of a croaking frog.

The dirt square this statue stood in the center of was similarly ill-maintained. Patches of yellow weeds broke the soil here and there, and Nessalir had to step over a muddy puddy where the ground had slightly caved in. Folk in simple clothes went about their business, and what business that might be was evidently not the concern of anyone else. Many of those folk eyed her and the weapons at her side warily, and they gave Nessalir a wide berth.

That was fine with her. Nessalir wasted no time in locating the old inn with the two-headed horse sign. A few passerby gawked at her openly as she approached the stronghold of the Duskers, but Nessalir paid them no mind. She tested the door and, finding it locked, she lifted her boot and kicked it open.

The wood splintered apart loudly, and the door flew open and slammed into the wall behind it. Nessalir wasted no time in entering the building, drawing her sword and ax as she did so.

While the exterior of the inn had been dilapidated, with a filthy wooden facade giving way to rot, the interior was strangely clean. Lanterns hung on the walls, casting orange light over the wooden hallways, and Nessalir could tell, even at a glance, at the place had been recently swept and dusted.

There was a short hallway, giving way quickly to a large common area. The stairs stood to the side, the wood obviously new; a tell-tale sign of recent repairs. On the opposite end of the common area, a wrinkled old man with a patchy beard white stood at a bar. He'd been wiping down the counter with a rag, and at the sight of Nessalir, this draconic warrior woman standing at the entrance of his inn with weapons drawn, he froze.

"Oh," he said. "You're here early."

"Byrk Nohrson," Nessalir said. Then, feeling only a little ridiculous at using his moniker, she clarified: "Sharkpuncher. I have business with him."

"Yes, yes, right." The old man nodded quickly. His eyes hadn't left her blades, and they were wide with fear. "I shall fetch him."

He made to leave, and in the blink of an eye, Nessalir charged forward across the common area, leapt onto the countertop, and placed the edge of her sword against his throat. Again, the man froze.

"You go nowhere," she growled.

"My lady," said the old man, "if you fear I will bring an ambush, please, let me assure you I'd never do such a thing. My employers, they merely wish to talk to you. It's no…"

"You. Go. Nowhere." She pressed her blade firmer against his flesh. "Call for Nohrson, or your head rolls."

The old man visibly paled. He swallowed. Then he shouted, obviously straining himself to be as loud as possible: "Sharkpuncher! You have a visitor!"

Somewhere above, a door creaked open, and Nessalir heard footsteps approaching the staircase. She withdrew her blade from the old man and hopped off the counter, opposite him.

"If you wish to live," she said quietly, "then you will leave. Now."

She turned her attention to the stairs as the old man scrambled to flee. The back door swung open and shut, the wood banging against the frame just as two pairs of feet began descending the staircase.

A broad-shouldered man with a deep red beard reached the ground floor first, and his harsh, beady eyes registered little surprise when he saw Nessalir. Behind him, his companion--a somewhat more slender man with long, braided hair and an equally long and braided beard, both near-black--appeared far more shocked by Nessalir's appearance.

"You work swiftly, drakkowar," said the red-bearded man. "I swear, I only just dispatched the messenger not an hour ago…"

"Not half an hour ago," said the black-bearded man. "Boss gave the go-ahead less than an hour ago, she shouldn't be here yet."

The red-bearded man frowned at that. At last, he appeared to notice the weapons in Nessalir's hands. "You have not come to negotiate, have you?" he asked.

"I'm afraid not," Nessalir replied. "Are you the one they call Sharkpuncher?"

"I am," said the red-bearded man. "How'd you find this place?"

"Through my dragon's sense of smell. Where's Iarius?"

Byrk held up his hands. "Look now, this wasn't supposed to go this way, alright? We just wanted to get your attention. You either pay us or work for us, or we ransom the little man back to Remura. It's just business, see? No need for hostilities."

Nessalir's eyes narrowed, and she began to advance on the brigand.

"No need for hostilities!" Sharkpuncher repeated, more urgently now. "We can just sit here and discuss this like civilized…" In one motion, he drew a dagger from his belt and threw it directly at Nessalir's face!

Yet the famed mercenary had already taken heed of the weapon at his side. When the attack came, she was prepared for it, and it was simply child's play to bring up her sword and knock the projectile from the air.

She charged.

Byrk Nohrson had, apparently, expected his thrown dagger to do the trick. Nessalir's easy counter seemed to have left him baffled. He reacted to her charge far too late to do anything about it, and before he could do much else than raise his hands again, Nessalir had speared her sword directly through his chest.

His companion behind him shouted in surprise and horror, but Nessalir kept pushing. She drove her weapon deeper, and the bloody blade burst from his back. She pushed more, and Sharkpuncher stumbled back, directly into his hapless ally.

The sword pierced flesh once more, and Nessalir continued to advance, until her weapon struck the wood of the wall behind them, and both men were impaled on her blade.

"Our discussion is over," Nessalir said. She pressed her boot against Nohrson's body and used it as leverage to pull her sword out. Both bodies crumpled, oozing red blood onto the floor.

"Now that," said a woman's voice, "was impressive."

Nessalir whirled, and froze in shock. A woman with green eyes and flaxen hair stood leaning her back against the counter, another man standing to her side with his hands resting on his sword. The woman smiled at Nessalir, seemingly unconcerned with the bloodshed she'd just witnessed, and in that smile there was both delight and hunger.

"Hello again, Lady Dragon," said Mathilde. "Welcome to my kingdom."