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โ„‹๐‘œ๐“Š๐“ˆ๐‘’ ๐‘œ๐’ป ๐’ช๐“‡๐’ธ๐’ฝ๐’พ๐’น๐“ˆ (๐•‚๐• ๐•ฆ๐•ฃ๐•’ x ๐”ณ๐”ข๐”ฉ๐”ณ๐”ข๐”ฑ)

velvet.

โ™ฅ ๅฅด ยฐ Cursed with an imagination ยฐ ๅฅณ โ™ฅ
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Cynthia Shipman

18 // Sacrificed Daughter // Fresh Meat
"When the river of parental love runs dry, the debt of childhood shall be repaid."



Summer descended on Greywater like rotting treacle. Dripping down chimneys, oozing through the streets, drowning its denizens in their own perspiration. Nowhere below the upper city was free of the cloying curse. Manure, horseflesh, and the unwashed massesโ€”the putrid pulse of a city, drifted into houses and squatted within them, unwilling to leave the shade and brave the boiling outdoors.

Within one such home, Cynthia Shipman despaired at the task left by her father. Dainty fingers plucked slender steel off a varnished tabletop. Licked thread was pushed against the needle's narrow eye, its crimson-dyed fibers protesting, refusing to pass. Cynthia sighed, sharpening the stubborn strands between her lips. Embroidery was a bitch. Idle work whose promised reward was an insult to the effort. Yet, reward was all her parents had on their minds.

Their raised voices plagued their home each muggy night. Talk of debt churned like a toxic mudslide into swearing and name-calling. Acidic words filled the air, corroding their bonds when her parents thought her asleep. Contempt flowed as easily from her father as disdain did from her mother, coating everything in their oily mix. Colouring her father as an idiotic buffoon and her mother a clueless spendthrift. Her two elder brothers were not spared. Labelled as dull labourers, bringing home meagre wages from the docks, incapable of inflicting even a dent in the family's financial predicament. And Cynthia, she prayed for the sweet oblivion of sleep before they talked about her. Deadweight. A burden. Her only hope of salvation? A suitor willing to pay a decent bride price.

And so she embroideredโ€”a desperate play at a noblewoman's habits. To raise the value of her hand, in defiance of the family's common name. It had not always been like this. Debt had stolen her parents' love. Every waking moment of the Shipmans' existence was dedicated to feeding its insatiable hunger. She recalled her childhood, of days spent playing by the hearth. Of helping her smiling mother around the house, not the snarling gargoyle the older woman had become. Of Mister Mendes the tutor, showing up to teach her letters and numbers, who had not been seen in a year. Of following her father to the docks to meet the trade fleets, welcoming the merchant captains with their booming laughs. Of watching her equally jovial father signing off on consignments of fragrant nutmeg, and beautiful silk. Of her brothers preparing the horse carts for deliveries around the city.

All of it. Gone. Her father had come home a year ago, plagued by a perpetual frown and hushed whispers. Fickle storms had sent their fleets to the briny depths. Stoic promises soured into angry recriminations as the months passed. Everyone had a duty to keep the family afloat. For Cynthia, it meant obeying her parents' demands, to improve the dowry she could command from her future husband. The family clung onto the anticipation of suitors like shipwrecked sailors to driftwood.

They had come. Droves of equally poor dockhands and seamen. With backs as strong as their pockets were limp. In truth, Cynthia would have gladly answered their requests. To go on dates. To get to know the men behind the broad shoulders and callused hands. Anything to get out of the cage her house had become. But her parents had stood resolute in their door, barring the paupers from even stealing a glimpse of her. Rejected and dejected, the callers had trickled away. A month had passed since the last prospective suitor knocked on their door.

The door creaked open. She glanced up to see her father's white-knuckled grip on the knob. Furrows carved their way like canyons in his brow. He stood in the doorway, fixing her with his stony stare, and gave a quiet command.


"Come with me."

Cynthia left the interminable embroidery on the dining table, glad of any distraction from the unenviable task. It was not until she had pulled on her walking boots and followed her sullen father out into the blazing heat, that she thought to ask, "Daddy, where are we going?"

"Cynthia," he said, "if you had the chance to help our family, would you do it?"

When had "pumpkin" ceased gracing her father's lips? Where was the loving pet name he had for her daughter? Cynthia. An adult name with adult responsibilities. She was not sure she liked it. Her father who had always been her protector. She gazed upon him now. Tired. Haggard. The bags beneath his eyes and slouch in his strong shoulders. They spoke volumes of the sacrifices he had endured.

"Iโ€ฆI will Daddy."

"Good."

Familiarity faded behind them. This was not a part of town Cynthia frequented. The cobbles beneath their feet and shuttered windows around them loomed strange. Raucous laughter emanated from the buildings. Sounds of clacking dice and the sour scent of strong drink chased staggering drunks as they burst forth from tavern doors. Though it was sweltering, business in the pleasure district never ceased to serve those with more coin than sense.

Cynthia tightened her grip on her father's shirt sleeve.


"Where are we?" Her hushed whisper squeezed through pursed lips.

"Be brave Cynthia. Someone here has a job for you. You want to help the family don't you?"

"Yes, Daddyโ€ฆ"

They paused before an establishment festooned with coloured silks. The flowing fabrics hid the harsh structure of its facade, giving the impression of smooth gentleness. Cynthia had seen these silks before. Packed in crates, received by her father from the ships. As he grasped her firmly by the shoulders and steered her toward the entrance, her heart leapt into her throat, lodging itself in the stillness of trepidation.

Two girlsโ€”not much older than she wasโ€”flanked the doorway. The sheer silks they wore could cover a small loaf of bread. If combined. Their bodies were on full display, matching flower tattoos carved into the flesh above their right breasts. Filigree metal collars around their necks, attached to metal rings sunk into the wall, kept them leashed to their positions, like a pair of living statues. Two pairs of silent, kohl-ringed eyes followed Cynthia and her father's passage into the interior.

Perfumed incense assaulted her nose, wafting from a silk-curtained area. Soft music, plucked from the strings of a lute drifted from the same confines. The mix would have been welcoming if not for the scene Cynthia had witnessed at the entrance. Her father immediately turned her to the right, down a drab corridor, away from the music and perfume. Had he been here before? A brick of creeping dread settled in the pit of her stomach. Exactly what job had he arranged for her?

This section of the building was entirely bureaucratic. Officialdom seeped from its uniformly spaced, brass-knobbed doors. The corridor circled the building, terminating at an imposing portal of double mahogany, judging the two perspiring Shipmans with disapproval.


"Remember Cynthia. We're all very proud of you," whispered her father.

He grasped a polished handle and pulled Cynthia into the room by her wrist.


"It's customary to knock before entering another person's private office," admonished a grizzled male voice from within.

"Sorry Mr. Marwood, here is the girl we discussed," said her father. He stepped aside to present Cynthia's petite form. Ringlets of her long, black hair curled like froth upon the gentle waves of her simple yellow silk dress. Her breath caught on her tension. Cynthia's onyx eyes widened at the bearded stranger within the officeโ€”evidently a person of importance within the establishmentโ€”she glanced at her father, whose eyes remained fixed on the other man.

"Daddy, what's going on?"

 



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Edwin Marwood

48 // Disgraced Officer // Whoremonger
"Money is like sea-water; the more we drink, the thirstier we become."



Edwin Marwood was a busy man. Having been discharged from the Navy with a ruined reputation and a vast amount of wealth, Edwin had been determined to make his money work for him. Lacking the connections to enter the lucrative foreign trade and with many of the captains avoiding him for political reasons, the former officer had decided to invest in the oldest of trades. He had expected that running brothels would be easy. All he had to do was collect the money from the girls and hire people to keep his investments safe.

As it turned out, managing a whorehouse differed very little from commanding a vessel. Which was to say that Edwin found himself far busier than he had expected when planning his investment. There was always something that demanded his attention. Girls kept getting pregnant despite the copious amounts of moon tea Edwin had delivered to his establishments. Edwin was almost convinced that his girls got with child to spite him.

Besides the unwanted children, he had to deal with patrons abusing the girls. Handling such cases took a fair amount of finesse. A patron could find himself barred entrance to the House of Hollyhocks if he refused to pay for damages. With wealthy and influential men frequenting the House of Lilies, such a measure could easily cost Edwin more money on top of what he had to pay the physicians willing to tend to his girls. He wanted to remain in the good graces of the lords of Greywater, and so the nobles visiting his establishments were allowed some leeway.

With the Spice Wars still raging, ships bearing refugees from the colonies docked at Greywater every week, which meant that finding replacements wasn't too hard. Edwin employed three men to look for young girls in the harbor district. He wanted to get his hands on them before they became unmarketable. A few lessons, a nice dress, and a little makeup allowed the girls to barter their fares at much better rates. A fact that Edwin's men were eager to point out whenever they bumped into a newcomer selling herself on the streets. The former officer saw himself as a benefactor. He gave the newcomers a chance to eke out a living in relative safety. He had no qualms about making the girls pay exorbitant prices for the housing and food his brothels provided. The fact that many young refugees had no other way to eke out a living didn't bother him in the least.

Most of the time, young women fleeing from the colonies could not be made to work at the finer establishments. Edwin's clients had particular tastes, and many considered the refugee girls woefully rural. While Edwin couldโ€”and wouldโ€”purchase pleasure slaves from Akkadian and Etalian traders, some of his more eccentric customers insisted on bedding local girls. Some simply would not touch the more exotic flowers. To ensure the affluent patrons kept revisiting his establishments, Edwin employed half a dozen lookoutsโ€”men and women who sought out local, well-established families that had fallen on hard times. Once located, such families would be offered a deal. While most turned down such an offer, some had no choice but to agree. Sometimes, Edwin's deal was the only solution the impoverished families had.

The worth of a given girl depended on her age and condition, as well as the social standing of her family. Edwin had paid tidy sums to some of the lower-ranking lords for their daughters, knowing that he could auction a noble-born Thassalian girl for exorbitant sums of money. Often, the patron who offered the highest bid knew the girl. Few men could resist the chance to buy the daughter of a friend or trade partner. Not that Edwin allowed his patrons to keep the girl herself. He merely offered them a chance to buy the girl's virginity as well as priority access to her company. The patron winning the bid would also get to decide how the girl would be trained, or if she would simply have to learn the oldest of trades on her own.



Edwin's office was surprisingly tame considering his profession. The paintings covering the walls depicted ships and other naval scenes. The room was well lit, with a gas-lit chandelier dangling from the ceiling. Gentle shadows danced on the lush Akkadian carpet covering the wooden floor. A faint scent of tobacco lingered in their air, a large ashtray sitting on Edwin's desk. The only suggestive piece of art in the room was a naked statue of Fraya standing by the doorway. The artist had depicted the goddess of whores with her arms spread wide, her expression blissful and welcoming. Edwin's fine satin coat hung from the goddess's fingertips, the buxomy statue also serving as a makeshift clothes rack.

"Welcome, Mr Shipman, Miss Shipman," Edwin greeted Cynthia and her father, his dark eyes moving slowly between the two. "I am glad you considered my proposal," he offered a wry smile to Cynthia's father. "And I am pleased to see you brought the good with you." Edwin frowned as his gaze drifted to Cynthia. He sounded disappointed despite the greed gleaming in his eyes. The young woman looked highly marketable, but her father did not need to know that. Edwin preferred to buy cheap and sell dear.

Standing up, Edwin walked to Cynthia's father, shaking hands with him. The grizzled old man was taller than his guests, Edwin almost a foot taller than the young woman.
"Cynthia," he spoke her name almost as if he was tasting a fine wine, his eyes intent on her. "How about you have her get undressed? I would want to inspect the goods." He addressed Cynthia's father, almost as if the young girl wasn't in the room. The way Edwin set his words made it clear that he was not making a suggestion. "A normal precaution, if you may."

 
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