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- ʙᴀ ᴅᴜᴍ 𝙩𝙨𝙨
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𝔖𝔦𝔠 𝔰𝔢𝔪𝔭𝔢𝔯 𝔱𝔶𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔫𝔦𝔰 | ƒᴇʀᴀʟ x sᴛᴀᴡʙʀʏᴅᴏɴᴜᴛ𝟶𝟼
- Thread starter ƒeral
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OP
OP
- Joined
- Sep 9, 2015
- Location
- ʙᴀ ᴅᴜᴍ 𝙩𝙨𝙨
Character Directory
Sable - color=#FF4444
Delmira - color=#1ABC9C
Arthur - color=#fba026
Sable - color=#FF4444
Delmira - color=#1ABC9C
Arthur - color=#fba026
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OP
OP
- Joined
- Sep 9, 2015
- Location
- ʙᴀ ᴅᴜᴍ 𝙩𝙨𝙨
Year 3121, the world of Kelthur began moving towards chaos.
No one expected the first rifts. Black voids, the total absence of light, materialized haphazardly over the lands, and whence came the First Beasts. They were savage creatures, heedful only of their base instincts. Armed with natural weapons and an affinity for violence, they tore through the unsuspecting countryside and seized all that they desired. And, like all tyrannies that rose too quickly, their reign of terror did not last.
The Kelthurians were shaken, but not crushed. Across every corner of Kelthur, shields and armaments arose in defense of life and land. For the first time in centuries, elven banners flew alongside human ones, and within two generations, the combined forces had subdued and eradicated the major Beast holdouts.
It was the Beasts that were on the run then, hiding out in the forests, in damp caves and atop mountain ranges. Their numbers were thinned mercilessly, on the verge of total collapse, when the Alliance came up with something better. After all, why kill these alien invaders, when they could be repurposed. When they could be made useful. They took the children of the First Beasts, snarling hybrids that were part man, part beast, and clapped them in heavy iron and forced them to serve. In the mines. In the lumber mills. Anywhere where their brutal strength proved effective.
It was human greed that enslaved the Beasts, but it was elven arcana that truly sealed their fate. After the first few incidents of slaves beaten down one too many times lashing out at their overlords with claws and fangs, the elven mages devised a solution - an enchantment. Elegant in its simplicity, imbued into mana-threads woven into leather, the arcane rune reacted only to the descendants of the First Beasts. At first, it was a method exclusive to the elves, but soon, through trade and espionage both, those enchanted collars flooded every corner of Kelthur.
Now, 500 years later, the terrors that had once stunned Kelthur into silence were little more than fables in a children’s book. The beastbloods were commonplace now, be they burly bodyguards, common laborers, wet-nurses and of course, pleasure slaves. The savagery of their inheritance never truly went away, but were diluted across generation after generation, and what remained was safe-guarded by those accursed collars.
To the furthest corners of civilization, the beastbloods toiled, an endless retribution for their unlucky ancestry. And so, the stage set, the curtain drawn—
“A hundred and a half, who will give me two hundred?” Folks of all shapes and origins packed the Auction House of Helysos. The vaunted hall, three stories high and supported by fluted marble columns, offered more than a chance to admire impressive architecture. No, today was the Spring Equinox, a day made significant - infamous, some would say - for demarcating the biggest auction held all year long. Not art nor collectables. Not jewels nor valuables. Slaves.
Here, the landowners selected the bulkiest beastbloods to till their fields, the butlers acquired unpaid help for their lords and ladies, and even the most common man could furnish his abode with a fetching pleasure slave - if he could afford it, of course. “Two hundred, do I have two hundred and a quarter? Two hundred and a quarter…”
One by one, slaves were shown and sold. Some were young, defenseless in their despondency, tails tucked between legs. Some were old, furs peppered and salted with the grains of time, eyes downcast with practiced submission, or perhaps just cynical acceptance of their fate. But those that fetched the highest prices were often the beastbloods in their prime. The broad-shouldered for ferrying boxes from ship to dock, the alluringly curved for loosening coins from coin purses, and more specialized slaves than that.
All, without fail, sported the customary marks of their subjugation around their throat, be they in the form of sturdy collars or attractive chokers. For most, that mark was the last thing they had of their former master. That, and indelible memories of their ceaseless servitude.
The prices were beginning to ramp as the auction approached its finale. The cream of the crop. Literally, for what were slaves if not the equivalent of crops or cattle? It was now and only now that the most anticipated slaves were shown. One, a master artisan, whose artistry with ceramics spread far beyond Helysos. Another, a renowned chef, who had catered to lords and kings until his master’s untimely demise. And this one now, a squire that had once rode behind Sir Ronald the Ferocious in the Great Kydene War. These were beastslaves of some note, beastslaves that had once brought fame and honor to their masters’ names. And for what. Because this, a future entirely out of their control, soundly within the grasp of the highest bidder, was the same fate that awaited every beastblood, no matter what.
“And so, ladies and gentlemen, we move to Number 62, the former beastslave of Master Adventurer Treviri Vicentia.” A number, because for what purpose a former name might serve when it was customary for masters to rename their slaves? Whatever accomplishment a beastblood might achieve, it was merely another embellishment to their master’s name. And, since said former master had bit the dust, the wolfblood formerly known as Sable was now just Number 62.
“I see a number of distinguished adventurers in the audience today, so I won’t bore you all with tales of Master Vicentia’s valor, which as you know, was in part made possible by the assistance of his beastslave.” Wyvern-slayer, manticore-destroyer, the list goes on. Treviri Vicentia’s reputation outlasted him, and his lanky wolfblood with that eye-catching mane of untouched snow was a common enough sight at various adventuring hubs to be unmistakable.
Given that the auctioneer had high hopes of marketing her to the discerning sort, Sable was at least allowed to keep her gear. The halberd strapped to her back was more than two heads taller than her, suggesting a strength belied by her otherwise slender frame. The series of belts accentuating her waist formerly held throwing knives, but obviously no one has bothered to restock her with those. Her expression was blank, carefully so. Not bored, so as not to earn her captor’s ire. Not too friendly, as that might attract her the wrong sorts of attention. But also not angry nor melancholic. Blank, because the gleaming edge of steel did not feel, and that was evidently the role she was cast for in this particular scene.
“For the greenhorns among you though, I will say that the right beastslave is the best investment you’ll ever make. Master Vicentia’s inopportune passing - bless his soul - allowed us this opportunity of a lifetime today.” That wasn’t what was said away from this gaudy stage, of course. No, of course it was her fault that he died. A worthless beastslave who could not even defend one of the most esteemed adventurers. But here, on stage, suddenly she was amazing and shiny, because coins were jingling and greed was fornicating.
It was disgusting. All of it. But none of those sentiments made onto her face.
“At thirty thousand--”
“Thirty-five.” Scarcely did the auctioneer advertise the opening bid, the price was already ramping.
No one expected the first rifts. Black voids, the total absence of light, materialized haphazardly over the lands, and whence came the First Beasts. They were savage creatures, heedful only of their base instincts. Armed with natural weapons and an affinity for violence, they tore through the unsuspecting countryside and seized all that they desired. And, like all tyrannies that rose too quickly, their reign of terror did not last.
The Kelthurians were shaken, but not crushed. Across every corner of Kelthur, shields and armaments arose in defense of life and land. For the first time in centuries, elven banners flew alongside human ones, and within two generations, the combined forces had subdued and eradicated the major Beast holdouts.
It was the Beasts that were on the run then, hiding out in the forests, in damp caves and atop mountain ranges. Their numbers were thinned mercilessly, on the verge of total collapse, when the Alliance came up with something better. After all, why kill these alien invaders, when they could be repurposed. When they could be made useful. They took the children of the First Beasts, snarling hybrids that were part man, part beast, and clapped them in heavy iron and forced them to serve. In the mines. In the lumber mills. Anywhere where their brutal strength proved effective.
It was human greed that enslaved the Beasts, but it was elven arcana that truly sealed their fate. After the first few incidents of slaves beaten down one too many times lashing out at their overlords with claws and fangs, the elven mages devised a solution - an enchantment. Elegant in its simplicity, imbued into mana-threads woven into leather, the arcane rune reacted only to the descendants of the First Beasts. At first, it was a method exclusive to the elves, but soon, through trade and espionage both, those enchanted collars flooded every corner of Kelthur.
Now, 500 years later, the terrors that had once stunned Kelthur into silence were little more than fables in a children’s book. The beastbloods were commonplace now, be they burly bodyguards, common laborers, wet-nurses and of course, pleasure slaves. The savagery of their inheritance never truly went away, but were diluted across generation after generation, and what remained was safe-guarded by those accursed collars.
To the furthest corners of civilization, the beastbloods toiled, an endless retribution for their unlucky ancestry. And so, the stage set, the curtain drawn—
“A hundred and a half, who will give me two hundred?” Folks of all shapes and origins packed the Auction House of Helysos. The vaunted hall, three stories high and supported by fluted marble columns, offered more than a chance to admire impressive architecture. No, today was the Spring Equinox, a day made significant - infamous, some would say - for demarcating the biggest auction held all year long. Not art nor collectables. Not jewels nor valuables. Slaves.
Here, the landowners selected the bulkiest beastbloods to till their fields, the butlers acquired unpaid help for their lords and ladies, and even the most common man could furnish his abode with a fetching pleasure slave - if he could afford it, of course. “Two hundred, do I have two hundred and a quarter? Two hundred and a quarter…”
One by one, slaves were shown and sold. Some were young, defenseless in their despondency, tails tucked between legs. Some were old, furs peppered and salted with the grains of time, eyes downcast with practiced submission, or perhaps just cynical acceptance of their fate. But those that fetched the highest prices were often the beastbloods in their prime. The broad-shouldered for ferrying boxes from ship to dock, the alluringly curved for loosening coins from coin purses, and more specialized slaves than that.
All, without fail, sported the customary marks of their subjugation around their throat, be they in the form of sturdy collars or attractive chokers. For most, that mark was the last thing they had of their former master. That, and indelible memories of their ceaseless servitude.
The prices were beginning to ramp as the auction approached its finale. The cream of the crop. Literally, for what were slaves if not the equivalent of crops or cattle? It was now and only now that the most anticipated slaves were shown. One, a master artisan, whose artistry with ceramics spread far beyond Helysos. Another, a renowned chef, who had catered to lords and kings until his master’s untimely demise. And this one now, a squire that had once rode behind Sir Ronald the Ferocious in the Great Kydene War. These were beastslaves of some note, beastslaves that had once brought fame and honor to their masters’ names. And for what. Because this, a future entirely out of their control, soundly within the grasp of the highest bidder, was the same fate that awaited every beastblood, no matter what.
“And so, ladies and gentlemen, we move to Number 62, the former beastslave of Master Adventurer Treviri Vicentia.” A number, because for what purpose a former name might serve when it was customary for masters to rename their slaves? Whatever accomplishment a beastblood might achieve, it was merely another embellishment to their master’s name. And, since said former master had bit the dust, the wolfblood formerly known as Sable was now just Number 62.
“I see a number of distinguished adventurers in the audience today, so I won’t bore you all with tales of Master Vicentia’s valor, which as you know, was in part made possible by the assistance of his beastslave.” Wyvern-slayer, manticore-destroyer, the list goes on. Treviri Vicentia’s reputation outlasted him, and his lanky wolfblood with that eye-catching mane of untouched snow was a common enough sight at various adventuring hubs to be unmistakable.
Given that the auctioneer had high hopes of marketing her to the discerning sort, Sable was at least allowed to keep her gear. The halberd strapped to her back was more than two heads taller than her, suggesting a strength belied by her otherwise slender frame. The series of belts accentuating her waist formerly held throwing knives, but obviously no one has bothered to restock her with those. Her expression was blank, carefully so. Not bored, so as not to earn her captor’s ire. Not too friendly, as that might attract her the wrong sorts of attention. But also not angry nor melancholic. Blank, because the gleaming edge of steel did not feel, and that was evidently the role she was cast for in this particular scene.
“For the greenhorns among you though, I will say that the right beastslave is the best investment you’ll ever make. Master Vicentia’s inopportune passing - bless his soul - allowed us this opportunity of a lifetime today.” That wasn’t what was said away from this gaudy stage, of course. No, of course it was her fault that he died. A worthless beastslave who could not even defend one of the most esteemed adventurers. But here, on stage, suddenly she was amazing and shiny, because coins were jingling and greed was fornicating.
It was disgusting. All of it. But none of those sentiments made onto her face.
“At thirty thousand--”
“Thirty-five.” Scarcely did the auctioneer advertise the opening bid, the price was already ramping.
StawbryDonut06
Deliciously glazed
- Joined
- Nov 7, 2022
There were only three reasons why Delmira would subjugate herself to this place; where the air clung to the skin and was perfumed by sour perspiration. The first, was out of desire to cause chaos and, perhaps, to put a spanner in the works of the auctioneer in the hopes of freeing a handful of beastbloods. The second, because a target frequented such a horrid place and she intended to track them from the auction house. The third, and the least likely, was because Delmira intended to go against everything she stood for and purchase a beastblood of her own. Unlikely, less probable indeed, but not impossible.
Having stolen the darkest corner of the auction house, Delmira was leaning against the black-bricked wall, her legs crossed at the ankles. Despite her casual posture, she was dressed much like the other few ladies in attendance; chaperones or husbands at their sides. In fact, looking at her, she looked as though she was on her way to a ball rather than the dark shadows of the beast blood auction. The shimmer of organza, cinched seemingly tightly at her waist, was the colour of light cyan; several shades paler than the rich dark tone of her turquoise hair. Pearls and droplets of diamonds were woven into the fabric, matching beads pinned into the thick braid of her hair. Her arms were left bare, ruffles forming the straps of her bodice. Her dress seemed so tightly laced, the cream of her arms left bare, that none would have thought to give her a second glance. And none would have imagined she'd have five throwing stars strapped to the inside of her left thigh, and three daggers sheathed on her waist, easily accessible by secret slits within the folds of her dress's skirt.
It had been over an hour since she'd arrived and cut her way through the crowd, keeping to herself when a young human boy offered her a program of what beastbloods were up for auction this eve. Delmira had come here with intention, and with one specific person in mind.
Master Adventurer Treviri Vicentia.
It was both a name that she knew well, and hadn't heard for years. At least, not in its entirety nor in its shortening. He had been Trev, to those he deemed friends, but he had been Atarinya to Delmira. My father. Blood was not thicker than water, nor did it define family. She felt it now, a stab in the centre of her chest, that was bittersweet. Family, she reminded herself, didn't abandon each other in the middle of the night. Nor does family leave each other to the devices of the Black Raven.
Yet, as often as Delmira had considered their past and all the reasons she should hate the memory of him, she couldn't find it within herself to truly despise him. For all that Treviri had done, he had still scooped her out from the waters of River Jalkar and given her a life. He had still taught her to write, to read, to laugh. While she'd debated coming to the auction house at all, she'd known what he'd have wished for. She knew that he'd loved his squire, a wolf blood not that much older than she, in the same way that he had, perhaps, loved Delmira; like family. He'd want for the wolfblood to go to a good, well-meaning Master; not the urchins that now edged forward at the sound of his name and the potential for them to own a piece of history.
There, shoved out onto the stage to stand beneath the sharp eyes of the crowd, was a woman Delmira knew to be Sable. She knew this from the letters Treviri had sent her, trying to re-establish contact. 'Delmira, you and Sable are cut nearly from the same cloth. Oftentimes, she reminds me of you, with her sharp wit and dark humour. I would wish for you to meet her, once you have forgiven me.' The wolfblood stood now, shoulders straightened and her gaze neutral, dressed in more weaponry, or suggestions of such, than Delmira herself—who, she had established in her time waiting, was the most armoured within the throng of too-close bodies.
Well, father, I supposed even in death you get your wish. Delmira pushed away from the wall, but only enough to straighten. Those about her clamoured forward, raising hands above their heads as they called increasing numbers. Still, she remained silent until the battle for Sable had reduced to two rugged men. One, she knew, was the owner of a well-established brothel; who's eyes were glimmering as he looked Sable up and down hungrily as if eager to taste her before selling her body for profit. The other was a cruel man, one who had sought to cause trouble within the Guild and, oftentimes, would steal from Treviri. His wish to purchase Sable made Delmira's spine stiffen, for she'd heard only two moons ago that he sought to destroy Treviri's legacy.
"Seventy-seven thousand." Delmira's voice, light and ethereal, carried above the sudden hush of the crowd. The human man beside her hissed something derogatory under his breath, but it went ignored. She didn't have money because she was an elf, she had money because she worked for every cent. Some, amongst the crowd, knew her by name of courtesan, while very few others, only three in the crowd, knew the truth behind such charade. Assassin.
The man from the Guild, Arthur, shot up his hand. "Eighty."
Delmira scowled. If the bidding went any higher than one hundred thousand, then she'd need to bring forward the date on her next contract and that could cause all kinds of trouble. Arthur, she knew, didn't have much coin behind his name; for he tended to waste it on gambling and women. She hoped to outlast him. "Ninety-four."
The room seemed to hold its breath, Arthur keeping silent and their bidding war seeming to have lost the brothel owner. The hammer raised, the auctioneer itching to get to a close. Delmira would fight it, tooth and nail. Sable would be hers, and hers alone. Then, just as the auctioneer moved to swing down the anvil, Arthur spoke.
"One hundred and twenty."
Fuck. Delmira's eyes, a rich caramel brown, flickered back to where the wolfblood stood. She'd be worth it, Delmira knew, if even it was to set her free. Sending a curse heavenward to her father for not simply having written Sable into his will, Delmira took a breath. "One hundred and sixty-eight."
Arthur swore, shoving at a youth-faced man, trying to cut through the throng to Delmira. His mouth was moving, but Delmira wasn't listening. Instead, she watched as the anvil rose, Delmira having staked more money than Arthur had ever had in his lifetime, and watched as it fell.
"Sold! To the woman at the back! Please collect your new item at the back."
Their fate was sealed. She was now the owner of a beastblood.
Delmira wanted to vomit.
Having stolen the darkest corner of the auction house, Delmira was leaning against the black-bricked wall, her legs crossed at the ankles. Despite her casual posture, she was dressed much like the other few ladies in attendance; chaperones or husbands at their sides. In fact, looking at her, she looked as though she was on her way to a ball rather than the dark shadows of the beast blood auction. The shimmer of organza, cinched seemingly tightly at her waist, was the colour of light cyan; several shades paler than the rich dark tone of her turquoise hair. Pearls and droplets of diamonds were woven into the fabric, matching beads pinned into the thick braid of her hair. Her arms were left bare, ruffles forming the straps of her bodice. Her dress seemed so tightly laced, the cream of her arms left bare, that none would have thought to give her a second glance. And none would have imagined she'd have five throwing stars strapped to the inside of her left thigh, and three daggers sheathed on her waist, easily accessible by secret slits within the folds of her dress's skirt.
It had been over an hour since she'd arrived and cut her way through the crowd, keeping to herself when a young human boy offered her a program of what beastbloods were up for auction this eve. Delmira had come here with intention, and with one specific person in mind.
Master Adventurer Treviri Vicentia.
It was both a name that she knew well, and hadn't heard for years. At least, not in its entirety nor in its shortening. He had been Trev, to those he deemed friends, but he had been Atarinya to Delmira. My father. Blood was not thicker than water, nor did it define family. She felt it now, a stab in the centre of her chest, that was bittersweet. Family, she reminded herself, didn't abandon each other in the middle of the night. Nor does family leave each other to the devices of the Black Raven.
Yet, as often as Delmira had considered their past and all the reasons she should hate the memory of him, she couldn't find it within herself to truly despise him. For all that Treviri had done, he had still scooped her out from the waters of River Jalkar and given her a life. He had still taught her to write, to read, to laugh. While she'd debated coming to the auction house at all, she'd known what he'd have wished for. She knew that he'd loved his squire, a wolf blood not that much older than she, in the same way that he had, perhaps, loved Delmira; like family. He'd want for the wolfblood to go to a good, well-meaning Master; not the urchins that now edged forward at the sound of his name and the potential for them to own a piece of history.
There, shoved out onto the stage to stand beneath the sharp eyes of the crowd, was a woman Delmira knew to be Sable. She knew this from the letters Treviri had sent her, trying to re-establish contact. 'Delmira, you and Sable are cut nearly from the same cloth. Oftentimes, she reminds me of you, with her sharp wit and dark humour. I would wish for you to meet her, once you have forgiven me.' The wolfblood stood now, shoulders straightened and her gaze neutral, dressed in more weaponry, or suggestions of such, than Delmira herself—who, she had established in her time waiting, was the most armoured within the throng of too-close bodies.
Well, father, I supposed even in death you get your wish. Delmira pushed away from the wall, but only enough to straighten. Those about her clamoured forward, raising hands above their heads as they called increasing numbers. Still, she remained silent until the battle for Sable had reduced to two rugged men. One, she knew, was the owner of a well-established brothel; who's eyes were glimmering as he looked Sable up and down hungrily as if eager to taste her before selling her body for profit. The other was a cruel man, one who had sought to cause trouble within the Guild and, oftentimes, would steal from Treviri. His wish to purchase Sable made Delmira's spine stiffen, for she'd heard only two moons ago that he sought to destroy Treviri's legacy.
"Seventy-seven thousand." Delmira's voice, light and ethereal, carried above the sudden hush of the crowd. The human man beside her hissed something derogatory under his breath, but it went ignored. She didn't have money because she was an elf, she had money because she worked for every cent. Some, amongst the crowd, knew her by name of courtesan, while very few others, only three in the crowd, knew the truth behind such charade. Assassin.
The man from the Guild, Arthur, shot up his hand. "Eighty."
Delmira scowled. If the bidding went any higher than one hundred thousand, then she'd need to bring forward the date on her next contract and that could cause all kinds of trouble. Arthur, she knew, didn't have much coin behind his name; for he tended to waste it on gambling and women. She hoped to outlast him. "Ninety-four."
The room seemed to hold its breath, Arthur keeping silent and their bidding war seeming to have lost the brothel owner. The hammer raised, the auctioneer itching to get to a close. Delmira would fight it, tooth and nail. Sable would be hers, and hers alone. Then, just as the auctioneer moved to swing down the anvil, Arthur spoke.
"One hundred and twenty."
Fuck. Delmira's eyes, a rich caramel brown, flickered back to where the wolfblood stood. She'd be worth it, Delmira knew, if even it was to set her free. Sending a curse heavenward to her father for not simply having written Sable into his will, Delmira took a breath. "One hundred and sixty-eight."
Arthur swore, shoving at a youth-faced man, trying to cut through the throng to Delmira. His mouth was moving, but Delmira wasn't listening. Instead, she watched as the anvil rose, Delmira having staked more money than Arthur had ever had in his lifetime, and watched as it fell.
"Sold! To the woman at the back! Please collect your new item at the back."
Their fate was sealed. She was now the owner of a beastblood.
Delmira wanted to vomit.
OP
OP
- Joined
- Sep 9, 2015
- Location
- ʙᴀ ᴅᴜᴍ 𝙩𝙨𝙨
In. Out. In. Out.
It was easier to remain impassive while she focused upon the near meditative tempo of her breathing, something to distract her from the shimmering indignity. Trev taught her that. He had not been her first master, and by the looks of it, he would not be her last. But he had been the most memorable - his kindness was half of the equation, and the other half consisted of a hodgepodge of humor, patience, and openness. He listened when she suggested that she flank the wyvern from above, validating her ideas with success. A most peculiar fellow. He had been competent, magnanimous, a man whose gruffness did not detract from his good heart. As it turned out though, none of those traits did him any good in the end. Because he was now six feet under ground, and she was…
“Seventy-seven thousand.”
Fur-tipped ears flipped towards the direction of the sound. Despite her elevation upon the auction stage, the source thereof was in too dim a corner for her to pick out from this distance. Who? That the voice clearly belonged to a woman was as unexpected as the bid itself. Sable had not been surprised to pick out Arthur in the crowd, had banked on him winning, even. Thus far, his primary competition had been the owner of a brothel, which didn’t evoke much sentiments in her beyond the already deeply entrenched cynicism towards mankind. It didn’t matter. Meat was meat - meaning, easy to serrate, perforate, and maim any number of ways. The humans would have their bidding game, but she would be the one laughing in the end.
The bids continued to ramp, and a silence descended over the crowd as the figure crawled towards, before exceeding, the one hundred mark. One hundred and sixty-eight thousand gold coins. That was enough to feed and cloth a peasant family for several lifetimes over. Enough to purchase a decent abode in uptown Helysos, where, as everyone knows, the land was practically gold. A rather ironic sum to pay for one’s death. She thought, watching as the farce drew to a conclusion. In truth, it annoyed her that someone other than Arthur had won; she had planned for a two birds with one stone sort of outcome.
“Sign here, initial here…congrats on your winning bid.” Money spoke louder than words, and, in the back of the auction house, Delmira received the full all-star treatment. Complimentary drink, nice plush chair, and a thin stack of paperwork combined with a lot of hand waving over the terms thereof. All very standard stuff.
“For your new acquisition, how would you prefer your mark of ownership be fashioned?” In its crude, early iterations, the bindings were tied strictly to elven magic, often anchored in the form of winding tattoos. That remained the preferences of many elves today, with the whole race being notoriously resistant to change and all that. But nowadays, far more accessible variants exist as well. A bracelet, a brooch, even a pocket watch, anything portable that can be activated with a mere thought. With the more run of the mill slaves, the same time-worn trinket might be handed down from master to master. But with the pricier acquisitions, such enchantments were unwound and rebound at time of purchase. One might even consider it part of the theatrics.
Much as a showpony might be brought out and paraded around, Sable was ushered to the back and made to stand to the side, a respectful distance away. At this proximity, her height was much more notable. Beastblood, on average, was taller than a human or an elf. And along the same vein, tended to be stronger and more savage, though their exact build and disposition often mirrored their animal counterparts. Like the gray wolf her ear and tail suggested, Sable towered two heads above the bookkeeper, an otherwise reasonably statured man. She was lean, wiry with incredibly low body fat, built like she meant to run down even the most enduring of prey.
All that muscle potential laid dormant for now, and her posture was relaxed and easy, as if it were not her freedom and future that were being sold. She trained a scrutinizing gaze upon Delmira, trying to ascertain if she had seen this mad elf who threw away a veritable fortune anywhere before, but drew a complete blank. Whatever Trev may or may not have said about his former protégé, nearly a decade apart would have made Delmira unrecognizable anyway. The elf was fetching and richly clad, a noblewoman? What, would she be made a gift to an aspiring adventurer of a son or something to that effect?
“And here’s the previous anchor,” the unassuming man fetched a silvery locket from an inside pocket, hefting it to the light. Sable turned and stared, the first flash of real emotion igniting the fire-red of her eyes. That had belonged to Trev, something evidently precious to him, as he always kept it closest to his heart. “Shall I destroy it and reforge something anew?” Sable tensed, clearly bothered by the idea, but she clenched her jaw and kept quiet. No, voicing her opinions wouldn't do her any good here. She would bide her time.
StawbryDonut06
Deliciously glazed
- Joined
- Nov 7, 2022
The dark ink of the pen scrawled hurriedly across the parchment. Delmira was running on auto-pilot, her vision tunnelled. She had no idea what she was signing, and she knew Treviri had taught her better, but all she could think about was getting out. This place, where people were traded and bought like little more than cattle, made her feel vile. It felt wrong, being there, amongst people whom deemed this practice okay. The pages flipped, one after the other, and Delmira simply scrawled across them whenever asked. Her clutch on the pen tightened over time, until the caramel of her knuckles paled.
"For your new acquisition, how would you prefer your mark of ownership be fashioned?"
The nub of the pen snapped, sending ink splattering across the corner of the parchment. She moved to smear it off with the side of her hand, the black ink staining her skin, before the man made move to snatch the gathered papers and rectify the mess. Delmira's pulse beat wildly within her throat as she straightened and fought hard to keep her features cool. Wisps of turquoise hair fell about the heart shape of her face, kissing her temples, and she hurried tucked a lock behind the sharp point of her ear.
"I would prefer none," Delmira's voice was cool, calculated, as she tipped her head and looked as much down at the man as she could for a woman of her stature. "I'd much sooner trust the hand of a hobgoblin smith than any man's. I'll see to the mark myself." Spitefulness, cruelty, earned less suspicion she knew; particularly when dressed in the garbs of her courtesan mask.
As the man crinkled his nose and went about checking over the papers, Delmira made a mistake. The honey brown of her eyes slid towards Sable, only to find the rich red of the beastblood's own sharpened gaze lingering on her. Their eyes held, something indescribable simmering within Sable's gaze, before Delmira blinked and turned away. Her stomach rolled, souring at the thought that she now owned her when she should, rather, be free. I shouldn't have looked.
Her gaze returned to the man before her just as he held up the locket and Delmira froze.
"No." Her heart skipped a beat, and she realised that momentary panic had shone through her voice. Delmira swallowed, lifting the point of her chin that little bit higher, maintaining that learned air of superiority. "I'll take it as it is and have one of my trusted smiths reforge it." If there was any rebuttals, any breath drawn to argue with her, Delmira continued with a glare. "Everything of mine is of the highest quality, that goes for the binds, this anchor, and new purchase."
The man eyed her warily, curious as to why she resisted their offers of service. Then, by its thin silver chain, he held the locket out to Delmira. "It is yours, then."
She wanted to snatch it, to swipe it from his fat fingers and pocket it where no other could see it. Delmira's fingers itched to do exactly that, and yet she stayed her hands for several seconds more. Then, with gracefully slow movements, she held out her hand, palm up, and watched as the locket was set against the soft caramel of her skin. The chain snaked over the lines of her palm, gathering in a heap when it was finally released by the tender, and she curled her fingers over it tightly. "Is that all? I have much to attend to today and wish to be on my way."
Dark eyes dropped from Delmira's face to her chest, the swells of her breasts momentarily capturing the man's attention. It was clear he'd fallen for her disguise, assuming she was implying to be busy this eve with clientele of the male kind. "Yes," he said lowly. "That is all."
"Wonderful!" The that split Delmira's blush painted lips was as bright as it was fake; though one couldn't tell by how she forced the light within her honey eyes. "Come now, pet. Let's be on our way." The look she shot Sable was one laced with deeper meaning that she hoped the Wolfblood could interpret. Please, don't make a scene, and follow me.
Over the floorboards, the rhythmic tap of her heels clicked as Delmira made to leave the auction house. The throng of people had lessened, many people having spilled out onto the cobblestone streets, but there still remained too many bodies. Delmira drew close, linking an arm through Sable's and pressing tight to her side as she murmured; "Please stay close."
Guiding them through, Delmira kept her chin high, thanking those whom congratulated her on her new purchase. Each passing second, she felt dizzy, nauseated with disgust. Her breathing grew rapid, shallow, as people encroached and fought to get close to them; to see the treasured Wolfblood that had gone for the highest amount of gold coin in the history of this auction house. Delmira's grip on Sable's forearm tightened, her face losing some colour, as she fought to guide the pair of them through the throng.
"Excuse me. Please move. Pardon me."
All were deaf, clamouring closer to view the white-haired beastblood. It was too much, Delmira growing disorientated before, suddenly, they burst through and out onto the street where she took her first breath of fresh air. Slowly, sense came back to her and so, too, did her vision. Abruptly, Delmira pulled away from Sable, wanting to apologise for having touched her without consent, but unable with so many eyes upon them. She stood there, looking up at Sable with her gold-chocolate eyes, before she next spoke quietly. "I'd like for you to follow me to somewhere we can talk with less eyes."
She nodded her head in the direction of the Main Street of Helysos, and didn't wait for Sable's response. Instead, Delmira set their pace, cutting between the people milling about their day to day lives. She guided them down narrow alleys, past bakeries and florists, stopping only to purchase a bouquet of white lilies. The people grew less frequent, their air less humid, and Delmira's steps began to slow. It was there, at the base of a narrow stairwell that lead up the side of a stone warehouse, that she finally drew to a stop.
The windowpanes were painted a soft shade of blue, the glass on the lower levels frosted slightly. Shapes of vases and furniture by the window was visible, revealing splotches of colour within, but nothing discernible enough to see detail. There was no front door, the only access to the odd building being up the white wood of the staircase and a red painted door with a brass knocker.
Gathering her skirts, Delmira took the first three steps before turning to Sable. "This is my home," she offered, eyeing the wolfblood's face. And it can be yours too, if you want it. With that, she continued higher, fetching a ring of keys from the hidden pocket within the skirt of her organza dress before unlocking the door and stepping inside. She held it open for Sable, however long it took for her to follow, and promptly closed it behind them. Three locks were set, Delmira depositing the keys back within her pocket, before enchanting the door locked with a rune.
What Sable would step into was a bright and colourful home. She was greeted with sky-blue painted walls, soft pink couches and mismatched and patchwork armchairs. The sitting area was small, and in its corner sat a kitchen. She'd painted the cupboards all kinds of colours of the rainbow, with the stones of her hearth decorated with runes in yellow chalk. A staircase was tucked in the opposite corner, crafted from iron and spiralling down to the lower, ground floor where a bedroom, bathroom and another sitting room were.
Sable wouldn't have much time to contemplate the space, nor the suggestion that her new owner was eccentric, for it was Delmira who broke their silence.
"Did you kill him?"
"For your new acquisition, how would you prefer your mark of ownership be fashioned?"
The nub of the pen snapped, sending ink splattering across the corner of the parchment. She moved to smear it off with the side of her hand, the black ink staining her skin, before the man made move to snatch the gathered papers and rectify the mess. Delmira's pulse beat wildly within her throat as she straightened and fought hard to keep her features cool. Wisps of turquoise hair fell about the heart shape of her face, kissing her temples, and she hurried tucked a lock behind the sharp point of her ear.
"I would prefer none," Delmira's voice was cool, calculated, as she tipped her head and looked as much down at the man as she could for a woman of her stature. "I'd much sooner trust the hand of a hobgoblin smith than any man's. I'll see to the mark myself." Spitefulness, cruelty, earned less suspicion she knew; particularly when dressed in the garbs of her courtesan mask.
As the man crinkled his nose and went about checking over the papers, Delmira made a mistake. The honey brown of her eyes slid towards Sable, only to find the rich red of the beastblood's own sharpened gaze lingering on her. Their eyes held, something indescribable simmering within Sable's gaze, before Delmira blinked and turned away. Her stomach rolled, souring at the thought that she now owned her when she should, rather, be free. I shouldn't have looked.
Her gaze returned to the man before her just as he held up the locket and Delmira froze.
"No." Her heart skipped a beat, and she realised that momentary panic had shone through her voice. Delmira swallowed, lifting the point of her chin that little bit higher, maintaining that learned air of superiority. "I'll take it as it is and have one of my trusted smiths reforge it." If there was any rebuttals, any breath drawn to argue with her, Delmira continued with a glare. "Everything of mine is of the highest quality, that goes for the binds, this anchor, and new purchase."
The man eyed her warily, curious as to why she resisted their offers of service. Then, by its thin silver chain, he held the locket out to Delmira. "It is yours, then."
She wanted to snatch it, to swipe it from his fat fingers and pocket it where no other could see it. Delmira's fingers itched to do exactly that, and yet she stayed her hands for several seconds more. Then, with gracefully slow movements, she held out her hand, palm up, and watched as the locket was set against the soft caramel of her skin. The chain snaked over the lines of her palm, gathering in a heap when it was finally released by the tender, and she curled her fingers over it tightly. "Is that all? I have much to attend to today and wish to be on my way."
Dark eyes dropped from Delmira's face to her chest, the swells of her breasts momentarily capturing the man's attention. It was clear he'd fallen for her disguise, assuming she was implying to be busy this eve with clientele of the male kind. "Yes," he said lowly. "That is all."
"Wonderful!" The that split Delmira's blush painted lips was as bright as it was fake; though one couldn't tell by how she forced the light within her honey eyes. "Come now, pet. Let's be on our way." The look she shot Sable was one laced with deeper meaning that she hoped the Wolfblood could interpret. Please, don't make a scene, and follow me.
Over the floorboards, the rhythmic tap of her heels clicked as Delmira made to leave the auction house. The throng of people had lessened, many people having spilled out onto the cobblestone streets, but there still remained too many bodies. Delmira drew close, linking an arm through Sable's and pressing tight to her side as she murmured; "Please stay close."
Guiding them through, Delmira kept her chin high, thanking those whom congratulated her on her new purchase. Each passing second, she felt dizzy, nauseated with disgust. Her breathing grew rapid, shallow, as people encroached and fought to get close to them; to see the treasured Wolfblood that had gone for the highest amount of gold coin in the history of this auction house. Delmira's grip on Sable's forearm tightened, her face losing some colour, as she fought to guide the pair of them through the throng.
"Excuse me. Please move. Pardon me."
All were deaf, clamouring closer to view the white-haired beastblood. It was too much, Delmira growing disorientated before, suddenly, they burst through and out onto the street where she took her first breath of fresh air. Slowly, sense came back to her and so, too, did her vision. Abruptly, Delmira pulled away from Sable, wanting to apologise for having touched her without consent, but unable with so many eyes upon them. She stood there, looking up at Sable with her gold-chocolate eyes, before she next spoke quietly. "I'd like for you to follow me to somewhere we can talk with less eyes."
She nodded her head in the direction of the Main Street of Helysos, and didn't wait for Sable's response. Instead, Delmira set their pace, cutting between the people milling about their day to day lives. She guided them down narrow alleys, past bakeries and florists, stopping only to purchase a bouquet of white lilies. The people grew less frequent, their air less humid, and Delmira's steps began to slow. It was there, at the base of a narrow stairwell that lead up the side of a stone warehouse, that she finally drew to a stop.
The windowpanes were painted a soft shade of blue, the glass on the lower levels frosted slightly. Shapes of vases and furniture by the window was visible, revealing splotches of colour within, but nothing discernible enough to see detail. There was no front door, the only access to the odd building being up the white wood of the staircase and a red painted door with a brass knocker.
Gathering her skirts, Delmira took the first three steps before turning to Sable. "This is my home," she offered, eyeing the wolfblood's face. And it can be yours too, if you want it. With that, she continued higher, fetching a ring of keys from the hidden pocket within the skirt of her organza dress before unlocking the door and stepping inside. She held it open for Sable, however long it took for her to follow, and promptly closed it behind them. Three locks were set, Delmira depositing the keys back within her pocket, before enchanting the door locked with a rune.
What Sable would step into was a bright and colourful home. She was greeted with sky-blue painted walls, soft pink couches and mismatched and patchwork armchairs. The sitting area was small, and in its corner sat a kitchen. She'd painted the cupboards all kinds of colours of the rainbow, with the stones of her hearth decorated with runes in yellow chalk. A staircase was tucked in the opposite corner, crafted from iron and spiralling down to the lower, ground floor where a bedroom, bathroom and another sitting room were.
Sable wouldn't have much time to contemplate the space, nor the suggestion that her new owner was eccentric, for it was Delmira who broke their silence.
"Did you kill him?"
OP
OP
- Joined
- Sep 9, 2015
- Location
- ʙᴀ ᴅᴜᴍ 𝙩𝙨𝙨
Arrogant.
That was Sable’s first impression of Delmira. Attractive, but arrogant, though she supposed those two traits often went hand in hand. Left to idle by the side during the terse exchange, the Wolfblood had nothing to do but to observe. Truthfully, this - being silent, passive, and all but pretending to be a fly on the wall - did not suit her. Life and vigor were found in action, in combat and violence and monster-hunting. Which were themselves in turn best accompanied by a heaping dose of cutting and wry humor. Sharp fangs and even sharper wit, that was her. Unfortunately and fortunately, all of that would-be-misbehavior was very much kept at bay by her current circumstances. She was not as brash as she was when she met Trev. With age, or perhaps with his guiding hand, Sable had learned discretion. There was purpose in keeping to the background, and so, she would do so even if it irritated her.
In her attentive observation, she picked up a few mannerisms that didn’t quite belong with the rest. There was that split second of shell-shock silence, that slight widening of the eyes that wouldn’t be noticeable to anyone paying any less attention. Interesting. There was more than meets the eye, but was there any point in investigating? After all, she had no intention of getting to know her new master - god, how that word offended every fiber of her being. A good master was a dead master, penned yours truly.
In what seemed like forever and also no time at all, her new fate was evidently forged in both silver and ink. The snow white fur of her tail nearly bristled at the nickname, but she drew a deep, slow breath, and forced herself to calm. There was no reason to draw attention to herself yet. Being underestimated has its advantages. And besides, Delmira had, once again, proven herself arrogant.
There was a reason why re-binding was always offered at time of purchase for the more valuable slaves.
Catering to the nobility’s notorious aesthetic demands aside, it was also just good sense. Once properly enchanted, the anchor established a far more stable binding, one accessible to its designated owner while within short distances. In contrast, mere possession of an anchor imparts a far feebly link, generally meaning skin contact with the anchor was necessary to actually invoke the bind. Delmira had gripped it, but not worn it. Doubtlessly, that meant the locket would end up in a pocket or pouch sooner rather than later. Those downturned scarlet hues flashed with savage intent, and she licked at a canine, biding her time.
Once outside the auction house, noise flooded in with the same suddenness as a warning bell’s toll. Her ears pinned back, tail flickering with agitation, but did not otherwise react. Delmira’s proximity did not irk her, but the people were another issue entirely. Sable bit down on her fangs, suppressing the urge to growl. There was a limit to her patience, and she could feel her blood shimmering with repressed rage, so much so that even with her keen senses, she did not pay much attention to Delmira’s reactions.
What she did pay attention to - the only thing she paid attention to - was where that locket disappeared off to. Through the city streets, she remained silent, because there was nothing she could say that would be to her advantage. However, the strange elf’s excessive politeness was beginning to get to her. ‘Please’ was not a word used towards beastslaves. And thus far, Delmira had not looked at her once with either the disdain or greed she was accustomed to. Trev probably wouldn’t like it if I killed someone like that. Sadness gripped at her heart, though, in true practiced fashion, she continued to portray nothing but blankness. After all, all of this circled back to Trev, and she owed it to him to at least consider an alternative.
Thankfully enough, an alternative readily presented itself. She watched, as attentive as ever, as that hand with the locket disappeared into the flowing fabric of the dress and reemerged with keys, sans locket. That was her opportunity. The closeness of freedom quickened her heart rate, and she had to exert conscious control to keep her posture placid. Patience. First, she would wait for the door to close, to ensure that they were truly alone. Second, she would close the distance. Slowly, unassumingly, just finding a space for herself in the foreign location.
All of her attention was trained upon Delmira, so much so that she intentionally lowered her gaze to prevent her intent from being broadcasted in those hyper focused reds. The question came, and the implication stung, but even that, she could shrug off. Because she was in lunging range now and - in a blur much, much faster than the average human could track, she barreled towards Delmira. Her right hand sliced forward, nails extending into claws, aiming for the eyes. A feign; she had no intention to connect whether the elf was capable of reacting or not, since maiming this woman probably also fell in the category of behaviors that Trev wouldn’t approve of. It was her left hand that mattered. Unlike the far more threatening attack admonished by her right, her left simply went for the dress. Whether Delmira dodged or not, fabric could only move so fast when not clinging to skin, and Sable smirked with triumph when she wrested just enough into her fist and - riiiiiiiiiiippppp - tore off nearly two-thirds of the skirt of the dress, hidden pockets including.
The Wolfblood leapt backwards a step, prepared to fight further or to disengage. Her gaze flickered down to the throwing stars strapped to a thigh, and, with everything else considered, she really couldn't say she was surprised. Either way, she had gotten what she aimed for, and so, she finally stopped playing at muteness. “For your excellent manners, I’m inclined to spare you.” Her demeanor was nothing like before. Everything from the upturn of her chin to that sly grin dispelled any illusions of that affected personality. “So, behave for me, pet,” vengeful amusement gleamed in her eyes, before she tossed the rumpled mess of fabric behind herself, towards the direction of the door and her escape route. “Sit and don’t make a peep, and I won’t ruin that pretty face in the same way as your dress.”
StawbryDonut06
Deliciously glazed
- Joined
- Nov 7, 2022
I want to know. I need to know. Delmira had been haunted by her imagination upon learning of Treviri's death. She'd imagined all the gruesome and bloody ways that he might have met his end, tortured by the rumours of the wolfblood's betrayal. So many had been quick to blame her, for a beast slave's only true purpose was to sacrifice their life for their Master's and, in that way, Sable had failed. What Delmira wanted to know was if Sable's desire for freedom ran as deep as a motive for outright murder.
Something sour brewed in the centre of her chest then; a bitter mix between grief and rage. This woman before her now had stepped into her place at Treviri's side, where Delmira should have been. He had left her, in the hands of the Guild and completely at their mercy, for Sable. It should have been reason enough to hate her and, perhaps, Delmira admittedly did hate her a little; but she had still sought to see her safe. I can hate her. She took everything from me. He found her, took her, and just discarded me. She stole him. She stole everything.
When there came no response, Delmira opened her mouth; those dark turquoise brows pinching together tightly over her slender nose. "Did you kill Treviri? Did you kill him? Answer me!"
But her brewing anger was not met with a verbal answer, but instead a physical one. Delmira's elvish senses were far keener than a human's, but blinded by her stormy rage, she had not noticed the subtle twitches of lean muscle as the wolf blood coiled to strike. Instead, she noticed only a second too late when Sable was lunging at her, sharp claws extended towards her face.
Fingers slipped into the hidden pocket of her dress, finding the studs and tearing them free. The necklace fell to her feet beneath her dress, caught later by Sable's clawed hand, as Delmira palmed one of her throwing knives. Out of instinct, she blinked as those sharp talons neared her face, blindly drawing out the knife and angling it upwards. If Sable crashed into her, if their bodies touched, she'd be speared by the short blade up under her ribs.
The kiss of their bodies never came. Instead, her knife caught only air as her dress was torn away, that falling locket caught in Sable's palm and the chain threading through her fingers. Delmira swore, reaching out with a hand to capture the slender of Sable's wrist. Beastbloods were fast, but so too were elves. Her cream fingers found the pale of Sable's skin, tightly coiling around the bones of her wrist. With one sudden yank, a lean of her body weight, Delmira had Sable unbalanced and peeling towards her. It was only then that their bodies struck, soft bosom against lower ribs, Delmira's chin held low but her eyes angled up; not stupid enough to bare her throat as they came crashing together.
She tried to spin them, to slam Sable against the wall, but the Wolfblood wouldn't budge. Instead, Delmira lurched backwards, her lower spine striking the cabinetry of her colourful kitchen and sending pots clattering to the floor. She held Sable's wrist out behind her, keeping her close, as the sharp tip of her knife dimpled the cotton of Sable's shirt, between her sixth and seventh rib.
"Ruin my face," she seethed, her eyes flaring with rage. Her chest rose and fell quickly with her breaths; rapid between the slight part of her lips. Turquoise tendrils were loose about her face; the careful poise of her facade gone. "Like you ruined my life."
Delmira shoved Sable away, throwing aside her wrist and the locket, but remained leaning against the bench; her hands gripping the edge either side of her waist as one still held the throwing knife within her palm.
"That locket was mine before it was yours, before it bound you. I could have let that brute have you. I could have let the whorehouse have you. But instead I spent one hundred and sixty-eight Kruva on someone who stole everything from me. So go on, Sable, ask me again to sit pretty."
OP
OP
- Joined
- Sep 9, 2015
- Location
- ʙᴀ ᴅᴜᴍ 𝙩𝙨𝙨
All of it happened in a blur.
Or at least, that would be what the uninitiated would say. In the span of few rapid heartbeats, it became readily clear that lethality was a language the two of them shared in common. Sable saw the arm snap out, quicker than a coiled viper, but to her surprise, found that she didn’t have time to evade the grasp. A confounded exhale squeezed out of her slightly parted lips, astonished that anyone could go toe to toe with her in the speed department. Before his demise, Trev sparred with her often, but in the past two years, even he was no match for her. Bloodred eyes narrowed, and she steeled her frame, regaining her balance with rapid footwork. Speed was one thing, but in the strength department, an elf could never hope to match a beastblood. It seemed that the strange elf realized it too, because before Sable could press her advantage, Delmira was coming at her with an unsheathed knife.
The claws of her free hand flexed, itching to slash, but she reined in her temper. Because this proved an interesting development. The anger. The white-hot, seething anger that was far too potent to be correlated to a quick scuffle. Who? She stilled, knowing full well that if Delmira wanted to stab her, she would have done so by now, much as Delmira no doubt should have realized that her intact skin stayed that way only because the Wolfblood intended that it be so. Rather than matching the burst of emotion, Sable listened, unmoved by the shove but not advancing either. There was a moment of silence as she considered the words, pondered the usage of her name and implications thereof.
“So, you are Delmira.” The matter-of-fact statement was accompanied by a smile, neither friendly nor particularly jeering. Amused, rather. She didn’t know it for a fact, but the look the elf wore confirmed her theory. There was only one elf in existence who likely cared this much about Trev, or, for that matter, was so out of sorts over his passing. And while that did instill some sense of solidarity in her, the competitive streak won out. It wasn't often, but Trev had a tendency to ramble when he drank too much, so Sable had certainly heard about the prodigious 'daughter' more than once or twice. And more specifically, on how Delmira refused all of his attempts to reconnect. She didn't know much about their history; didn't care to, either. But now history was suddenly alive and animated before her eyes, and she found herself curious to know what all the fuss was over. Making her way towards a cabinet, Sable paced about two steps further away, before plucking an apple from a bowl of fruits. “I can’t say I’m unfamiliar with being accused of thievery by pretty elves,” she cut into the apple with her claw, demonstrating their razor sharpness with how readily it sliced through skin and flesh. “But usually, the accompanying physical exertion is more…gratifying.”
Having made a perfect crescent of a slice of apple, she made a point of staring at Delmira while crunching on her fruit, taking no shortage of liberties in her home. Now was definitely not the time nor place for flirtation, but Sable did so precisely because of how absurd it was. A reasonable person would offer something to pacify Delmira’s obvious rage, but reasonable had never been her strong suit. Instead, she found herself enjoying goading the enraged elf far, far too much. “Since I've apparently taken so much from you, come take this apple from me,” she lifted the half-devoured fruit up eye-level, intentionally infuriating. “And I’ll answer your questions about Treviri.” Their last bout, the few seconds that it was, Delmira had caught her off-guard with her startling agility. It was the closest Sable had come to losing a fight in years. And that just wouldn’t do at all. But this time, she was prepared. Angled close to the kitchen island, she had every intention of pinning Delmira against the furniture if the elf took the bait.
StawbryDonut06
Deliciously glazed
- Joined
- Nov 7, 2022
The bemused sparkle within Sable's crimson eyes was infuriating, and Delmira felt the heat in her cheeks spiking with the race of her heart. The plush of her painted lips were pressed together, her jaw tight at their corners. The cream of her skin pulsed there, Delmira gritting her teeth as her hazel eyes narrowed at the Wolfblood.
So she had heard her name, the tale of her even, enough that Delmira's subtle jab, allusion, had prompted Sable to assume. And assume correctly, she did. She wondered, for the briefest of seconds, what Sable had heard. Had Treviri spoken of her often? Did he speak of her with pride, with regret, with shame?
The cinnamon of her eyes followed the graceful movements of the Wolfblood as she peeled away, crossing the kitchen in only three short steps and coming before the fruit bowl. The apples there were washed and polished, their skins ruby red. She had every intention of allowing them to sit there within the golden stream of sunlight for the day before stewing them down and baking a pie. The pinch of her brows deepened as she watched Sable pluck one from the bowl and carve into it with a sharpened claw.
"Seems to be all that you know," Delmira hissed, eyes flickering from between the drilling, cream flesh of the fruit and the smug smile upon Sable's face. She eyed the curl of her lips, the glimmer of fang, and lifted her gaze to crimson eyes. "Stealing, that is."
She could hear the rush of her blood in her ears, the boil of heat in her cheeks, as she watched Sable turn ever so slightly and hold the apple just partly outward. As if she were a child, Sable held the fruit at Delmira's eye level; taunting, humiliating, infuriating. Delmira's eyes darkened, her hand tightening about the throwing dagger she held by her side; the very same blade that she had pressed between Sable's ribs before shoving her away.
The dagger was there, in her palm and wrapped in her slender fingers, one moment and gone the next. It flew silently between them, piercing the apple with just enough force to slip through its flesh and yet to leave it within Sable's outstretched hand. It carved all the way through the apple's core, but it did not split it into two. Instead, only the tip of the blade punctured the skin upon the other side of its globe, pricking the flesh of Sable's forefinger. Had she thrown it harder, and it might have entirely pierced the digit and thrown the apple from her grasp. But this? This was precise calculation on Delmira's part, and perhaps just a little of foolish boldness in her rage.
Her footfalls were soft over the floorboards as she padded close, Delmira reaching up to snatch the thin handle of the knife. When she drew it down, so too came the apple, until it kissed the soft of her lips and Delmira bit into its flesh; the golden brown of her eyes cast upwards at Sable as her turquoise brow quirked.
"My first question…"
The apple lowered, still spiked on her knife, to reveal lips a shade of rose now wet with juice. They shimmered, a bead of liquid by the corner of her mouth, that was caught slowly by the sweep of her thumb and pressed into her mouth.
OP
OP
- Joined
- Sep 9, 2015
- Location
- ʙᴀ ᴅᴜᴍ 𝙩𝙨𝙨
The prick - her finger, her ego, both - confirmed what Sable already knew, which was that Delmira, much as Sable herself, was all too competent at wearing a mask. Unlike the polite, highborn demeanor the elf projected earlier, her display now seemed far more authentic. Authentic, and far less boring. Which was a good thing, because amusement was a feeling Sable sorely needed nowadays, particularly when every other thought tended towards grief and rage. Delmira, doubtlessly unintentionally, had just posited herself as the shiny new toy, and every wolf loved hunting.
“You already asked your first question.” Her words would be equally felt as they were heard, with the way Sable rammed forward. Delmira’s uplifted arm presented an easy target. Her fingers locked like mithril shackles around a wrist, and she compelled the arm down, knife and all, to Delmira’s side. The apple slid down the knife from the sudden motion, thudding onto the ground, before rolling and smearing its juice all around. “I didn’t kill him,” she grunted out amidst the impromptu tussle, blocking the upturned knee with her own and snarling at the dull impact.
It wasn’t that Delmira was weak, but there was a reason why beastbloods were so carefully suppressed. At this proximity, Sable’s superior strength was the sort of thing that no amount of agility could salvage. “I haven’t killed you because he wouldn’t like it.” She squeezed hard enough to make her point, her other hand locking around an elbow, before she spun the both of them and pinned Delmira against the counter. Face to face, the Wolfblood was more than a head taller, a fact that made her bared fangs that much more menacing.
“But let me make myself clear. Trev was my friend, not my master, in spite of whatever bullshit elven magic might say.” There was a dangerous glint in her eyes, an inherent inclination towards violence spurred by their spar that was hard to suppress. Sable paused, breathing deep, and willed herself towards reason. “Now, I’m going to assume that you asked about Trev because you care about him, and so I will say this only once - I don’t buy what I’ve been told about his death one bit. His death was no accident, and I am going to hunt whoever is responsible to the edge of the world and beyond that.” Her chest rumbled with repressed rage, her earlier goading replaced with genuine ire. “Delmira, I’m going to let you go now. You can stand aside or help with my quest. But you will not get in my way, do we understand each other?”