Nessalir the Red

It was a weeks-long journey that brought them to the grove and the standing stones. Many were the nights the two travelers had spent sleeping under the stars, and many more were the hours they'd spent on horseback, trotting in a leisurely pace down the myriad roads and paths that crisscrossed the Northern Lands.

The past week, then, had been a reprieve. Iarius had been glad to sleep in an inn for a few nights, even if the deal Nessalir had worked out with the innkeeper required him to help in the stables.

Though he was a scholar of the Empire of Remura, Iarius had grown up a servitus on a Maritoris farm. His muscles, though weakened by years of sedentary study, still recalled how to lift and move, and he tended to the horses with minimal complaint.

Nessalir's own labors seemed more exciting, though this was balanced by the fact that they were far more dangerous. The people of this little village, called Storholt, had complained of a púca which had taken up residence in the nearby lake. The creature could take on a number of different forms, and it delighted in using all of them to lure the locals into the water, where they then drowned, their bodies kept as food in its aquatic lair.

Iarius had been intrigued by the tales, and was curious to see the púca for himself, as no such creatures existed in the Remuran provinces. They were, he gathered, rare in the Northern Lands as well, for púca were native only to the island of Síthat Teluir, located many miles off the Western coast.

However, his companion had been firm: "I have never faced a púca before, and know not the fell extent of the danger they pose. Remain here, earn your keep in the stables, and I will return before Ostara."

That was the Northerners' festival that coincided with the Vernal Bright Moon. To them, it marked the arrival of both Spring and the new year.

"And what is so special about this Bright Moon celebration," Iarius had asked, "that it required us to make this journey? To come so far North, so far from civilization?"

But his companion's golden, draconic eyes sparkled with mischief and anticipation, and all she said was "you shall see." Thus Iarius was left to wonder, and at night when he lay alone in his bed, his mind conjured frightful images of the Northern barbarian sacrificing him to the stars in some twisted ritual meant to represent death and rebirth.

He had faith, of course, that Nessalir would not entrap him so. Yet the nightmares came regardless.

It was the day before Ostara that Nessalir the Red returned to the village of Storholt. She carried with her a charred and blackened head, belonging to a creature that vaguely resembled a horse, though its skull was strangely misshapen.

"You have slain the púca!" the villagers celebrated, and the dragonblooded woman accepted their thanks and their payment, before retiring to the inn.

"Tomorrow," she told Iarius, "we shall travel to the old grove East of here. It is but an hour's walk. There, you will witness an Ostara celebration that few in this world have."

He pressed her for more answers, yet Nessalir remained tight-lipped.

When morning came, the two set out. Nessalir led the way, her crimson hair shining in the sun, her red-scaled tail swishing back and forth as she walked. The half-dragon mercenary was, Iarius reflected, equal parts terrifying and beautiful. Every part of her body radiated power, and in both her muscles and her alluring face, she carried the perfection of form that every artist craved.

Deep into the woods she led him, until at last the pair came upon a grove where stood seven stones. Each was old and gray, weathered by years such that any carvings they may once had carried were long faded and gone. Moss grew upon their tops, and vines creeped up their sides. Soon enough, they would be more green than gray. In a few years, they would likely no longer resemble stones at all, but rather lumps of vegetation protruding from the forest floor.

The standing stones were arranged in a circle. Nessalir stood in the center, and she bade Iarius join her there. Once he had, the virem draconem drew her hand ax from her side and, holding it in her right hand, slid the head across the scales of her left.

Blood, the same shade as the dragonhide that grew over her left hand, tail, and back, oozed from the cut, and the warrior woman led the drops of red fall to the soil below. "Know that I am a friend," she said, and at first Iarius she was addressing him. She continued, however, and he soon realized that she was instead speaking to the stones themselves.

"I have been recognized by Queen Eldorith ly'Boncyff as friend to her people. Taste of my blood and know the truth of my words! I come at the invitation of the Great Mother, and I bring with me one mortal guest! On this day, as the magic of the world flows into Hamanira's bosom, exert but a fraction of her waning power, and open the way to the queen's court!"

A breeze swirled around, soft at first, but it soon picked up and became a raging wind. It battered at Iarius from all directions, and he shut his eyes to protect them.

Abruptly, the wind ceased. Iarius opened his eyes, and he and Nessalir were no longer standing in a ring of stones in the woodlands. No, now they stood in a garden, surrounded by high white walls, carved in intricate, mazelike designs. Before him was a small stream of water, and a bridge that looked woven of old vines. Beyond, there was a white palace, looming over them, and as he eyes traveled upward, he saw a door open onto a balcony, and a tall, thin woman with stark white hair stepped through it and looked down upon them.

"Welcome, Iarius," said Nessalir, "to the Court of the Elves."