The moon lit the streets of Al Drazeer with a bluish light. The cool breeze drifted lightly, carrying light clouds of sand across the dusty streets of the small village. In the silence and shadows, a tall figure emerged as if from it had been born of the darkness itself. when he passed in front of a lit torch, the red hair and beard reflected brighter than the flame itself. His emerald eyes casting about the darkness, scanning for any signs of movement or danger. He was in a new place, and Throgir did not like to be caught off his guard.
It was well into the morning, just before dawn, so no one on the streets would be of worth, to include himself. He was a sellsword, and an outcast from his land. To make matters worse, the warrior didn’t have a coin to his name at the moment. A drunken night with crafty she-thief had left him coinless, as she woke before him and stole off with his coinpurse. At this point, he was more angry at himself than the golden skinned beauty he had spent those nights with. As he moved down the streets, he finally caught sight of a torch-lit sign that read “The Raging Dragon: Tavern Inn.”
Walking into the the tavern was like entering an enemy hold, all went silent and let eyes fall upon him. Unsettling to a lesser man, but Throgir didn’t let it move him. He trode through the crowd of watchful eyes, his sword gleaming a steel warning to any who would challenge him. Sitting at the bar, his stool creaked at the weight of his combined body and blood-rusted chainmail. The barkeep aproached him, his misty eyes narrowed with concern and caution.
“What’ll you have then?” his shaky voice asked.
“A room, free if you’ll have me. I’ll work and earn my keep.” Throgir replied, his tone almost ashamed. Relaxing, the old man grabbed an ale mug and poured Throgir a glass.
“Why’d you come to me, after all this time Throgir?” The old man wondered, sliding the glass across the bar into Throgir’s massive, waiting hand. The bar went back to it’s usual activities of gambling, drinking, and singing.
“You know I would not have, had I not been desperate, Othain.”
“Yes, boy. I know. Come upstairs to the office, we can talk more privately. Greda! Tend the bar for the rest of the night. I have business to attend.” Othain called out to a supple bodied blonde that sat on the lap of a large, dark skinned man. As Throgir watched the woman stride from her sitting place, he noticed the dark eyes of her companion examining him contemplatively. He quickly wiped it from his mind, he would deal with it if need be. No use in causing unnecessary, unwanted trouble.
The two marched up the stairs that emptied into a narrow hallway of closed doors and filled laundry baskets. They followed the hallway to the very end, and entered the door in front of them that revealed a comfortable room. A desk covered in books and papers sat in the center with a chair carved from some kind of fine wood. Behind it was a large couch and two chairs that sat around a small table with a bottle of fine wine and breads. A fireplace both lit and warmed the room consecutively. Throgir followed Othain around the desk and when he sat on the large couch, Throgir moved and sat opposite him on one of the chairs.
“Tell me then, Throgir of Icehelm, why have you come Othain the Black?!”