2

     Iago awoke the sweet scent of sandalwood emanating from some unknown source.  The musty scent stirred him awake and he sat up on, what he could only assume, was his (surprisingly comfortable) cell bed.  He wiped sleep from his eyes as he glanced around the room he found himself in—which looked surprisingly like a very comfortable bedroom, not a prison cell at all.
     The room was stone, as though he were in manor or castle of some kind, and draped with plush tapestries of red, gold and browns.  Candelabras sat in the corners with their candles melted in formations akin to stalactites, or icicles, or “maybe a troll with an extraordinarily long beard,” he thought.  Wax lay splattered in uneven circles around the base of the candelabras, molding to the shape of the stone.  Two large windows, surprisingly lacking in bars, were embedded in the wall across from the bed.  They were well off the floor and set far into the wall so that light shone in through a down-sloped indentation directly onto the bed.  Two bookshelves, covered in large tomes and trinkets, sat across from each other like bookends on opposite walls covering part of each of their respective tapestries.
     This was the most comfortable bed that Iago had ever been in.  What felt like a freshly fluffed down mattress molded to his, surprisingly naked, body.  “Naked?  Uh oh…” he thought, perplexed.  “What the hell have I gotten myself into here?”  His nose began to itch.  “Apparently the Saints are still looking out for me, though,” he thought, with the same kind of sarcasm he always used when his mother had mentioned them.   Iago and the Saints had never been on good terms since he was a small child and he began his first collection of other people’s interesting things.  His mother had never taken kindly to him appropriating her jewelry, for example, and had sent him to the priest for a lecture on the Unsaintly Vices more times than he could remember.   But the priests never had much of an effect and he’d often thought that the Saints, if they even existed, were probably far too busy to watch out for him, or to judge him for that matter.  If they were watching out for him, they had a lot of explaining to do right now.  
     As he scratched his nose, he noticed that the sandalwood scent wasn’t the only thing that smelled pleasant.  He had been bathed and apparently perfumed, which, while pleasant, he could only assume was a bad sign.  It was all just far too… nice!  Cognitive dissonance began to set in.  The last thing he remembered was the ebony skin and yellow eyes of a Nácta-pé looking down on him, a crack on the back of his head and the dewy voice and sharp accent of the Runiin woman.
     Then there were the dreams.  They came rushing back to him suddenly in a mist of sensuality.  A red haired woman with long, thick hair rubbed his body lightly with her soft hands, kissed his neck with her full, pouty lips and seemed to reach into his soul, grabbing onto a piece of it and putting it a necklace that fell between her full breasts.  He could almost smell her perfume and feel her warm skin against his hands as he remembered these dreams.  His heart ached with longing.  Had these not been dreams?  Had she been the one who had taken care of him?  Brought him here?  Why would such an amazing woman, of such incredible power (“incredible power?”) and extraordinary talent (“extraordinary talent?”) take pity on one so low and worthless as him?  
Iago felt quite confused.   Also, he felt quite aroused, but he pushed those thoughts from his mind for the time being.
     One of Iago’s biggest problems, unbeknownst to him, was a lack of curiosity.  Sure, he was curious about what other people were holding, why he couldn’t have it, how he could get it and any other number of basic curiosities—but as removed himself from the bed to go look at the trinkets on the far cupboard, he didn’t even really consider that he was feeling slightly dazed after that rush of memories.  He shook his head and picked up a crystal swan.  The figurine was beautiful crafted and as he held it to the sunlight that was streaming in the light refracted creating a rainbow on the wall.  He smiled, flipped it over and saw runes etched into the bottom.  He set it back down, distracted by a bejeweled ring that sat next to two very large, crimson candles on the middle shelf.  He picked it up and examined it closely.  It was gold, bedecked with five rubies.  In the center of the ring was the largest of them, and they grew progressively smaller away from the center.  “This could probably get 100 crowns on the market,” he thought.  He put it onto his finger and howled as a jolt of pain shot up his arm.  He pulled the ring off and threw it back onto the bed, “more like 500!”
     As Iago went around the room examining the artifacts, and collecting the ones he deemed valuable, he realized, in fact, that this was a prison of sorts—a particularly enjoyable prison for one of dubious moral standards—but a prison nonetheless.  He could find no obvious exit by which to extricate himself from his situation, and no matter how many books he pulled out, candles he twisted or tapestries he moved he simply couldn’t find a secret door.  Frustrated, he walked back over to the ring and his pile of contraband and stuck them in his pouch.   He donned his clothing, which had been freshly washed and set next to his bed, and sat down on the bed.

     Drianna smiled to herself and walked to her desk as the water in her basin cleared of the image she had been watching.  Everything was working out quite according to plan.  Not only had she picked up a dupe who was not quite aware that he was being duped yet, she also now had an inkling that her spell was working.  It was a subtle enchantment that she had been trying to perfect for ages and put to use.  While it is not terribly difficult to make someone fall in love with you, the majority of love potions and enchantments have a tendency to make someone obsessed with you.  This was a subtler magic and when she finally appeared before him she should appear the woman of his dreams, but not the object of an undying, and frankly obsessive, enchantment.  Instead this should nest itself deeper in his psyche, attach him to her in the most traditional and binding sense of the word love—unconditional.
     Still pleased with herself, Drianna sat down at her desk, which was cluttered with parchment and had a very large leather-bound book in the center of it, which was open to what appeared to be the middle of an expansive list.  The room she was in was long and covered in similar tapestries to that of Iago’s prison and several portraits of red haired women.  Spaced fairly evenly along the walls were bookshelves filled not with books, but with baubles, daggers and gems.  The ceiling was high and two large windows acted as bookends letting sunlight stream into the room.
     She was just beginning to focus on the papers on her table when she heard a soft rap on the door.  Jumping up quickly, straightening her dress and closing the large leather-bound book, she moved to the door.
     A kind-faced older man, with wispy hair that crowned his balding head, leaned around edge of the thick, oaken door, “Your clients are here, madam.”
     “Thank you, Arvid.  Show them in, please.”  At that she turned her back and moved quickly over to the desk to sit down and maintain the air of a proper lady—the kind of citizen of Caerlin Vale that wouldn’t have a man imprisoned in the room directly adjacent to where she was doing her legitimate business.