Nessalir the Red

It was rare that Nessalir the Red found herself at a loss for words. In the span of her short life, she had traveled all across the Northern Lands and faced countless creatures that defied all mortal logic and reason. She did not believe herself easily shocked.

The irony that something so mundane as this could leave her speechless was not lost on her.

"I must thank you again for the night we shared," said Mathilde. She pushed herself from the counter and sauntered over to Nessalir, taking her time with every step. Her hair was pulled up into a bun, and she wore a simple beige dress with a dark leather apron, looking for all the world like any common maid, a girl who labored in domesticity and dreamed of little beyond the confines of her village.

Yet all of this was belied by the way she carried herself. Mathilde walked with the confidence of one who wielded power. Every step she took was calculated and well-timed, almost teased. She moved with the grace of a predator, with a seductive manner, an easy smile upon her face.

"As soon as I saw you," the boss of the Dusters went on, "I knew I had to have you. That Remuran was the bait I needed, the threat to his life my leverage to bring you into my employ. You may think it crude, but I have met many a mercenary, Lady Dragon. You have grand appetites--for fortune, for pleasure… In time, you would have forgotten him, and embraced your new life with me."

Nessalir's grip tightened on her sword and ax. "I swore an oath to protect him."

"Yes, yes." Mathilde waved her dismissively. "A matter of reputation, of course. It is everything, both in your line of work and mine. And trust me, my dear, I've thought of that. A woman's reputation is merely the sum of the stories people tell of her, and you should know that the power of a tale lies in its telling."

She nodded to the corpses behind the drakkowar. "Take Byrk, for example. Poor, foolish Byrk. He was never a bright one. But people knew him as Sharkpuncher, and they respected. Because, in a way, this name was true: he did punch a shark. But the common story, the story the boys over at the old oak tell among themselves, is that the creature leaped out of the sea and was struck from the air by Byrk's right hook. He embellished the tale himself, because the truth was less impressive: the shark was beached. It was dying, thrashing about in its final throes. No man would approach it, but Byrk. Who stepped forward and punched it right in the head. Brave, yes. But hardly the stuff of legends.

"The truth is little more than a distraction. What matters is the story that gets told. What matters is that Remuran spy took advantage of your trust, used you to infiltrate Grjeil, and planned to bribe our leaders into surrendering our homes to his empire. When I showed you proof of his deception, you punished him yourself, for none should betray Nessalir the Red and live to tell the tale."

Her eyes sparkled. "We shall rule this city; Nessalir the Red and Mathilde the Fair. Together, we will be the queens of Grjeil's underworld. Does that not sound wonderful, Lady Dragon? Will you not join with me? Bed me again? I know you enjoyed your night. This, my dear… We were meant to be."

At long last her meandering path across the common area brought her to Nessalir. The smaller woman reached up and cupped the mercenary's cheek. She craned her head, stood on her tiptoes, and brought Nessalir's lips to her own.

The kiss was soft, and Nessalir would not deny that it was pleasant. She recalled the feel of Mathilde's body against hers, her lips upon her breasts, her fingers… It was true: she had enjoyed her time with the other woman. Mathilde's kiss was hungry and eager, and Nessalir could tell that there was much more pleasure to be had here.

A repeat of last night would be just the start. Last night… When Nessalir had taken this woman to bed, had slaked her lusts upon her, all while downstairs, Iarius was being plied with drink by Mathilde's men, lured out and captured while his protector was distracted. Betrayed by the desires of the one who'd sworn to protect him.

The kiss was broken. Mathilde smiled at Nessalir. "What say you, lover?"

Nessalir dropped her ax. Mathilde's smile only grew as her clawed, draconic hand came to rest on her shoulder. Nessalir looked her in the eyes, and drove her sword into her belly.

Pain, confusion, then shock spread across Mathilde's face. She opened her mouth, and crimson blood fell from between her lips. Nessalir pushed her shoulder, withdrew her sword, and the woman fell backward, gasping for breath, twitching and convulsing. She managed to choke out a single word: "Why?"

But Nessalir ignored her. She turned her attention to Mathilde's crony, the man who still stood near the counter, terror written clear in his expression. "Where is Iarius?" Nessalir asked. "Answer true, and you may yet live."

The man raised his hands to show he was unharmed. "Basement," he said. "It's through the door behind the counter. Trap door leading down. Please."

Nessalir pointed her blade at him, then nodded to the front door. "Leave."

Hurriedly, the man scrambled to flee. He left the inn quickly, hardly sparing a glance at his dying superior.

When he was gone, Nessalir began approaching the counter. A hand grasped her ankle weakly, and she looked down at Mathilde, her skin pallid, her eyes looking at Nessalir with a silent question.

"I have known love," Nessalir told her. "I have known the bitter sting of love's loss. I know what it feels like. You were a pleasant distraction, but you are not my type."

With that said, she left the brigand queen to bleed out, and she entered the backrooms of the inn.

It was as the Duster had said: a trapdoor led to a basement, with a door on the opposite side. The door was locked, but it was a simple matter for Nessalir to break it down. Inside, she found her charge.

Iarius was bound and gagged. He jumped when Nessalir burst into the room, but calmed when he saw it was her. Quickly, she cut his ropes and freed him.

"Thank you," he said. "I thought I was…"

He trailed off as Nessalir threw her arms around him. She held him close, her strong arms binding him just as tightly as the ropes. After a moment, she felt Iarius' arms around her torso, and the two held each other.

"I failed you," said Nessalir. "I neglected my oath, and I allowed you to come into harm's way."

"The fault was my own," replied Iarius. "My own stupidity allowed this. My own weakness…"

Nessalir tightened her grip, for just a moment, then let go of him. "Weakness is a foolish thing to worry about," she told him. "We are all mortals, all weak. We all break just as easily. It is in the healing that show the truth of ourselves." She stood, suddenly feeling embarrassed. "But if still you worry, then I would be happy to teach you how better to defend yourself."

Iarius looked at her for a long moment, and she wondered what might be going through the scholar's mind. Eventually, he stood.

"I would like that," he said. "I would like that very much."

And together, they ascended from the basement, and they left behind the bodies of the dead, and returned to their room at the Brigands' Remorse.