By Chance Met by Eresse

Camrion was away unless he came here,” the Herun’s other companion pointed out. Camrion was certain he was kin, so closely did he resemble Reijir in countenance if not in height.
    Lemael flushed. “Erm… I meant he wouldn’t have entered if he didn’t see Camrion about,” he stammered.
    “That’s because you never treated him right, Lem,” Camrion said reproachfully. He looked at Reijir anxiously. “I hope the lad’s all right. But what in Aisen made him do something so foolish?”
    “I would dearly like to know his reasons myself,” Reijir dryly said.
    Just then, his aide returned. The Deir softly recounted what he’d learned. When he was done, Reijir turned on his heel, his face black with fury.
    Without warning, he strode behind the bar and grabbed Lemael by the collar. Cries of alarm rang out when he brutally thrust Lemael against the counter, nigh bending him backward in half. Lemael yelped as the edge of the counter dug into his spine.
    “My lord!” Camrion cried. “What are you doing?”
    Reijir ignored him and glowered threateningly at Lemael.
    “Where is Naeth, blackguard?” he barked.
    “I don’t know!” Lemael gasped. “I haven’t seen him since you took him away!”
    “Yet you were seen just two days past introducing him to one Davon Irve, owner of a sporting house.”
    Camrion gaped. “What?” he croaked. “Naeth was here? And you didn’t say a word?”
    Lemael wheezed as Reijir’s hand tightened around his throat. “He only wanted lodgings for a day or two,” he choked out. “I let him use his old room.”
    “But, Lem, you know what Davon does! Why did you let him near Naeth?”
    “I didn’t! He approached us! All I did was be polite.”
    Reijir snorted. “So polite you told him Naeth was looking for work.”
    Despite his situation, Lemael shot a venomous glare at Wilfur who hovered nearby.
    Reijir hauled him up, twisted him around, and smashed his face into the back wall.
    Lemael shrieked when his nose collided with the hard surface.
    “Do you know the penalty for procuring a minor?” Reijir said, his voice icy with rage.
    Lemael whimpered fearfully. “But I didn’t instruct Naeth to join Davon’s stable,” he sobbed.
    “Nay, you only suggested your pimp friend provide him with employment. I tire of this!” Reijir suddenly threw Lemael down on the floor. He planted a foot on the blubbering Deir’s chest, bearing down hard on him.
    “Did Naeth ask you for directions to the sporting house?” he growled. Lemael nodded, tears streaming down his face. “When?”
    “A few hours ago. Be-before Cam arrived.”
    “Holy Saints!” Camrion glanced at the tavern entrance where the lengthening shadows told the time. “He’s probably being auctioned off right now!”
    “Where is the house?” Reijir demanded. “Speak!”
    As soon as Lemael muttered the address of Davon’s establishment, Reijir released him and raced out of the tavern with his companions. Camrion stared after them in a daze then looked down at Lemael when the latter attempted to rise.
    Contempt replaced his confusion, and he said in a hard voice, “Get out, Lem. I’ll not have the likes of you anywhere near me.” He shook off Lemael’s hands when his now erstwhile mate clutched at his leg. “And you’d better pray they find Naeth in time else you’ll think the gallows preferable to dying at Lord Arthanna’s hands.”

Naeth shivered despite the stifling warmth of the small dressing room. He avoided looking in the mirror to his left. He did not want visible evidence of how low he had fallen. And he would fall even lower before the night was done, he miserably thought.
    Attired similarly to the rest of Davon’s stable of prostitutes, he was clad in silky drawstring trousers topped by a sleeveless shirt like none he had ever seen before. It closely hugged his body and the small peaks of his nipples and shallow dip of his navel could be discerned through the thin, almost translucent fabric.