Zinzie flopped down in the chair, limp as a ragdoll. He didn't look too lively until water was offered to him. He most certainly would have chugged it down if the man offering it to him hadn't told him not to. Instead, he slowly but steady drained the bottle. By now, he'd stopped panting like a fat man running a marathon. Zinzie at least felt a bit better. His voice was clear enough to speak with the man who had saved him. 

"Thieves," He said. "I was taken by thieves. They were after the wealth and riches of my people. The Wandering Nation; perhaps you've heard of them? I was their king." 

The Wandering Nation was a thing of myth, as far as most people were concerned. There were some that claimed to have seen it, but it was usually dismissed as a large group of travelers. The legend went that a group of outcasts formed. They were shunned by society, and suffered for it. Forced to wander the vast and unforgiving lands, they decided that no one else should have to suffer their fate. They began to pick up people who society also tossed aside. Run away slaves, fugitives, royalty that wished to escape the crown, anyone who wanted to join them. It was said that over time, the caravan grew from tens, to hundreds, to thousands. It was the population of a small nation, and thus the name. It gained several royals, and with them, unequaled fortunes. Many thought that if they could defeat the Wandering people, they would be the riches person of earth. But no one had ever been able to pin their location down. Thus, people assumed that it was all just a story that people told each other when they couldn't find anything else to do. 

"You won't regret your kindness," Zinzie promised. "If you can help me find them, I will repay you in gold, my friend. As much as you can carry. Plus a horse to carry more." Zinzie certainly didn't look very rich. And he sure as hell didn't look like any kind of king. Perhaps the months in isolation had taken his mind. Maybe he was just delirious. He seemed so sure of himself, though.