“... e you sure this is…” A voice, one Nevin didn't recognize, cut through the darkness that had enveloped him. His mind kicked into gear almost immediately as he tried to figure out what was going on, where he was and why his head was aching like… Ah. Someone had cold-cocked him, laying him out with some kind of weighted sap. Nevin could feel the area around his right eye swelling up and throbbing already. He took stock of his situation.

Nevin was still dressed from what he could feel - he wasn't going to open his eyes just yet, and reveal to his captors that he had woken up. His arms were currently being gripped by two men - each one holding one arm while keeping a hand clamped on his shoulder, keeping him forced down onto his knees as he hung limp between them. Neither man holding him though, was the one who had spoken. That voice had come from a few feet away.

“...he third time, yes. We almost grabbed him at his little alche….” That was a different voice, but this one was mildly familiar to Nevin, coming from behind the redhead. He could swear he had heard it a few times recently - the person had never spoken to him directly though. Or had he just before Nevin was knocked out? Crimson, had someone been stalking him, all the way from Stonevale out here to Corone proper? “Look, see, he's got the red hair and the alchemy stuff.” The voices were clearer now as they argued over his head. “And I saw them eyes like black rubies they were. Dark than dark, but red.”

The person that had first spoken sighed irritably. “But does he have them? We’ve caught redheaded alchemists before, and you swore one of them was our mark. Did you at least check to see?” Them? Nevin froze. ‘Redheaded Alchemists’ was already a fairly specific category that he fit. Maybe he had been grabbed by mistake? "You two. Lift him up, we’ll check now. Sandor, you'd better hope that he's got them and you haven't wasted my time again.”
The two men holding Nevin by the arms shifted their grips, sliding the hand that was on his shoulder down to hold him by the armpit. He was hoisted bodily up, and he was careful to keep his head loose and lolling like he was still unconscious. Panic kept him from moving when he heard a something metal being drawn from a sheath, and then there was a cold point of metal being pressed against his stomach.

Before he could try to free himself, try to escape from what was apparently going to happen to be his death by disembowlment, the blade flashed up, slicing through his shirt and tunic with ease. It took every ounce of willpower for Nevin not to react to his secret being bared before four strangers, and even then he knew he was trembling. The man in front of him whistled, long and low.

“Well, you better thank the Thaynes, Sandor. This freak’s got the tattoos. This is the one we’ve been looking for.” Fear and shame was replaced by anger and shock. The number of people who knew about the lines upon his body could be counted on one hand with fingers left over. Why were these men looking for him? Who had told them?

“Right.”
Nevin felt a blow crash down on the cheek on the uninjured side of his face, metal rings cutting his cheek. “Put this tattooed freak in with the other mark.” Nevin felt a cold satisfaction coil in his gut. If there was another prisoner his chances of escape and retribution on these assholes rose. “Worst case one ends up eating the other, and one less mouth to feed before we sell them.” And there went that hope. Crimson, they were putting him in with a cannibal? He was dragged away, as Sandor and the other man began to argue about how much Sandor’s cut should be.