ℋ𝑜𝓊𝓈𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝒪𝓇𝒸𝒽𝒾𝒹𝓈 (𝕂𝕠𝕦𝕣𝕒 x 𝔳𝔢𝔩𝔳𝔢𝔱)

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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 masses—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 embroidered—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. "I…I 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, Daddy…" 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 girls—not much older than she was—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 office—evidently a person of importance within the establishment—she glanced at her father, whose eyes remained fixed on the other man. "Daddy, what's going on?"​

 

[Koura]

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 could—and would—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 lookouts—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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Cynthia Shipman 18 // Sacrificed Daughter // Fresh Meat "When the river of parental love runs dry, the debt of childhood shall be repaid." ​ Who was this man? Maggots squirmed their way across Cynthia’s skin, leaving gooseflesh in their wake. She shrank behind her father. But he wrenched her before him, placing her directly in the stranger’s path. Her father’s strong hands around her shoulders, warm through her thin dress sleeves, brought no comfort as he offered her to the predator before them. "I am glad you considered my proposal, and I am pleased to see you brought the good with you." What proposal? Cynthia’s frown shot upward to her father, whose hard eyes stared ahead at the other man. Brick by brick, Cynthia’s dread built her immurement with the stony facts she had tried to ignore—her family’s need of coin, the district they were in, the girls at the entrance, the overwhelming feminine perfume from the silk-curtained areas. They lay themselves around her in an impenetrable wall. She suffocated under the terrifying reality of her fate as doubt departed, leaving only merciless certainty. Her father, her once loving protector, was casting her away to save the Shipmans. Selling Cynthia to this man. No, this monster, who made his coin from the suffering of girls like her. Who would no doubt extract his wage from her flesh. The bearded creature stopped at a conversational distance with her father. Deliberately ignoring Cynthia’s existence, sandwiching her between himself and his business associate. Her nose wrinkled at the musk of his perspiration, adorned by the stench of tobacco. His body, inches from brushing against her, made Cynthia squeeze her eyes shut and turn away. “Cynthia.” Her deep frown eased to glance up, finding only cold appraisal. The man did not introduce himself. He was not addressing her as a person. His actions were akin to someone perusing a store, reading aloud the label of an item on a shelf. Cynthia wanted to respond, the words were right there. To cry out, or greet him, or even slap the self-assured stranger. To tell him in no uncertain terms, that she was not for sale. It was as if her father could read her thoughts. His hands around her shoulders tightened their grip, forestalling any reaction. Anger at his betrayal crashed headlong into her ingrained wish to do her duty. Had the family not given Cynthia everything? Was she to abandon them now in their time of need? How would she help with the Shipman’s finances if not this? Cynthia had no answers to the irrational guilt smothering her resistance. And if the man’s actions made her thoughts boil, his next words froze them in their tracks. "How about you have her get undressed? I would want to inspect the goods." The world shrank to a point. It was as if reality ceased to exist. There was only her, desperately clinging onto her father in a vast, uncaring void. Silently begging him to take her back, away from this place. “You heard Mr. Marwood. Go ahead Cynthia, it’s okay.” Her last anchor disappeared. Vertigo overtook her, a feeling of falling into the abyss. Cynthia was sure she would faint, but no such mercy came. “What would mummy say?” she whispered. Her father spun her around. Cynthia flinched as his obsidian gaze cut her with its jagged edge. “Why do you think you’re here? Your mother’s a useless woman who’s been wasting our coin on frivolous purchases.” The world blurred as tears dripped from her eyes. “That’s not true.” “You tell me. What do you call a pair of new shoes when we struggle to pay the banks? She already has a closet full of them!” Cynthia froze. The words caught in her throat as the swirling morass in her father’s mind, the vile truths that he had so carefully kept under wraps, burst forth to cover them both in its slick foulness. Did her father still bear love for the people in his life? Or had his capacity to care rotted away with their family's fortunes. “Do you think your mother helps our family, Cynthia?” said her father gently. He massaged her shoulder when she failed to respond. “Do you?” “No…” Her voice was barely a whisper. “Do you want to help?” The question sat like a loaded pistol in her mind. Her father had placed it there. Cynthia could either point it at their family or herself, but she must pull the trigger. “I do.” The words she had been saving for a future husband, fell like worm-gnawed fruit before they had a chance to ripen. “Good girl.” Mechanically, stiff as a wind-up toy, Cynthia pulled her yellow garment over her head and let it fall to the ground. She slipped out of her leather walking boots, toes curling in the office’s thick carpet, looking askance at Mr. Marwood. He signalled for her to continue. Taking a deep breath, she pulled off her chemise and drawers—damp with her sweat—and flung them aside with unnecessary force, getting the act of stripping naked over as quickly as possible. Her arms shot up of their own volition to cover her pert breasts and lightly furred sex. Cynthia wanted nothing more than for a hole to open up in the ground to swallow her whole. Shoulders hunched and eyes squeezed shut, she prayed for the ordeal to end quickly, and to be allowed to dress herself.​

 

[Koura]

Edwin Marwood 50 // Grizzled Veteran // Whoremonger "Take a look at this snazzy motto that has not been decided yet." ​ Edwin watched Harold and Cynthia converse with disinterest. Having commanded a ship for the better part of two decades, Edwin was used to getting his way. He had expected Cynthia's father to have explained their arrangement to the young woman. Weakling, Edwin thought to himself, his eyes resting on Mr. Shipman. While the two men were roughly the same age, both having grey in their hair, they could not have been more different from each other. Where Mr. Shipman was soft and round, Edwin was strong and sinewy. Where Mr. Shipman sounded meek, Edwin's voice brimmed with conviction born from confidence. Mr. Shipman had been meek when he had first come to Edwin. His associates had told him that Harold might visit him, despite the man having rebuked their offer. They had told Edwin his despair had been palpable. The whoremonger could remember how Harold's hands trembled when he had offered her a glass of cheap brandy. Edwin had decided that the pitiful man wasn't worth the good stuff he kept in his cabinet. Edwin considered Harold an embarrassment—a man of weak character. He would not have survived a single day on any of his ships. If Mrs. Shipman had ruined the family fortunes—a claim that Edwin doubted—the fault lay at her husband's feet anyway. A man was supposed to be the head of his household. He ought to have had reins on all financial matters, including those of his wife. Having met the man twice, he was convinced that Mrs. Shipman was at most tangentially involved with the misfortunes that had forced Harold's hand. Shaking hands with Harold had left Edwin with an urge to find a basin and wash up. As a former military man, traders often had that effect on him. Nodding quietly as Cynthia began to undress, Edwin sat down on his desk and reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, finely lacquered tobacco box. Paying no heed to the fumbling young woman, he placed a small piece of scented paper on his palm, sprinkling some of the tobacco on it. "She's always been like that?" he asked Harold, slowly rolling the cigarette in his fingers. Both Cynthia and her father could hear the disdain in Edwin's voice. Rolling his eyes, Edwin walked to a flickering gas lamp on the wall. "Like her mother?" Propping the cigarette between his lips, Edwin lifted the thin glass dome and reached for the gently dancing flame. Huffing a few times, he lit the cigarette and turned to Mr. Shipman. "Now, I believe we agreed on five thousand tails?" The coin minted at the Greywater bore the coat of arms of the Wyck family, a tail of a sea monster peeking from the waves. "Tentatively," Edwin added, taking another puff from his cigarette, the scent of fine Akkadian tobacco slowly filling the office. "Depending on the quality of your goods." He glanced at the meek young woman, tilting his head to the side as he took a moment to assess her. Murmuring to himself, Edwin walked to Cynthia, grasping her wrist and yanking her hand out of the way, exposing her bosom, eyeing the young woman as if she already belonged to him. "She's a wee bit scrawny, don't you think, Harold?" Gone was any pretence of decency, Edwin addressing Cynthia's father casually, almost as if they were old friends. "Her udders aren't too bad," Edwin muttered, nonchalantly reaching to cup one of Cynthia's breasts. "Firm enough," he added, his nails sinking into her flesh. "Her features, well, what can I say?" Pressing his fingers under Cynthia's jaw, he tilted her head back. "I've seen prettier girls. No offense intended, of course. In my line of business, you happen to see a lot of people from around the world." "I don't think I can pay you the full sum, my friend," Edwin told Mr. Shipman as he walked around Cynthia, stopping to rest his fingers against the nape of her neck. "You said she was a virgin, yes?" he asked, his fingers slowly trailing Cynthia's spine. "You won't mind if we check that, do you? Sometimes girls end up doing all sorts of things behind their father's backs." Edwin offered Harold a wry smile. "Girl." Edwin addressed Cynthia for the first time. "Why don't you hop on the desk and spread your legs—just in case you've lied to your dear daddy." Sensing her hesitation, he reached to pat her rump a few times. "Go on, girl, we don't have the whole day. Up you go."​

 

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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." ​ Cynthia shivered. Though the air in Mr Marwood’s office—shielded by stonework from the sweltering heat—held the trio in its balmy embrace, there was nothing warm about the way the proprietor referred to her as goods. She was a morsel in a creature’s lair, laid out to be eaten. A deep revulsion for her own actions gnawed at her gut. Creeping horror, at the memory of the two girls out front, stalked her mind. This was for a good cause. Cynthia clung to the consolation for the blatant trespass. She was doing her duty, making a sacrifice for her family. No, this was a betrayal. Nobody even mentioned, much less discussed with her, this solution to the family’s debts before selling her off. A betrayal? What right did she have to complain? She had never been anything but a drain on her family. Guilt and anger wrestled each other, while dread brooded on the sidelines. Cynthia was quietly grateful for them. They distracted her from the harsh reality of being for sale, of this odious stranger openly talking about how much she was worth as a piece of meat. Five thousand tails? That was a substantial amount of coin. None of the potential suitors her parents had driven away even came close to matching it. Sick fascination with the offered amount reared its twisted head, perhaps being sold was the right fate for her? The Shipmans would have ended up on the streets if she married any of the men who came knocking. She was not just helping, Cynthia was saving the people who had fed and sheltered her. Repaying her debt by helping them repay theirs. She hugged herself tighter, nails digging into the side of her ribs. What would she have to do to justify such an amount? Mr. Marwood was upon her before her thoughts could run their course, pulling Cynthia’s arm away, groping her. His fingers burrowing into her breast like carnivorous worms. Her instinctual retreat caused pain to flare in her soft mound, a shocked gasp escaping, even as his iron grip around her wrist prevented the rest of her from doing so. As if daring her to try again, the man let go of Cynthia’s wrist, but left his other hand around her intimate flesh. She cringed from the heat of his rough palm, turning away to look at her father, only to find him staring apprehensively at Mr. Marwood, unable to meet her daughter’s pleading gaze. The senior Shipman offered no response, as the other man violated his daughter with his hands and his words. "Her features, well, what can I say?" Daddy! Say something! Mr. Marwood clamped his free hand around her jaw and turned her to look at him. Cynthia met those callous, deep set eyes, and fear stabbed its icy blade down her spine once more. She could hear the silent promise he made. Every tail Mr. Marwood paid for her would be extracted a hundredfold from her flesh, until she was nothing but a broken husk, unfit to even stand chained outside his house. "I've seen prettier girls. No offense intended, of course. In my line of business, you happen to see a lot of people from around the world." Where was the adroit trader she had seen before in her father? Expounding the exclusivity of his silks and spices? Getting the best deal he could from selling them? She saw him now, shrunken, shirt stained with sweat, wringing his hands over doing the same when it came to his daughter. "I don't think I can pay you the full sum, my friend." Her father’s continued silence sliced deeper than the touch of the stranger pawing her. What are you doing Daddy? Anger bubbled like black tar. Her father was letting her sacrifice go to waste with his passivity. She was doing her part, so why was he—the one who brought her here in the first place—refusing to rebut this monster, who was driving down the price he would have to pay? A smouldering, sticky rage smeared itself behind her eyes, pulling every muscle taut at the injustice. Cynthia’s fingers balled into fists, brows drawn together into a frown. Her stiffened tendons pushed against Mr Marwood’s vile fingers as he sought the nape of her neck. "Why don't you hop on the desk and spread your legs—just in case you've lied to your dear daddy." Was this all she was worth to her father? A prize to be shown off growing up, paid for in lip-service to social norms. To be discarded for material gain when grown. And even then, without the follow through to secure her full worth. Cynthia saw the coward she had called Daddy, balking, when push came to shove, at the course of action he had chosen for her. Riding on rage-fuelled adrenaline, she looked directly at Mr Marwood of her own accord as he patted her bum. "Go on, girl, we don't have the whole day. Up you go." Fear took a backseat as anger knocked guilt to the ground. A clean break, it was what she needed. Not this sawing, scraping of a raw wound her father was inflicting on her. Cynthia wanted no whispers haunting her, of being a useless waste of resources, of not having done her part. She owed nothing to her family after what she was about to do. “No,” Cynthia said to Mr. Marwood, making him acknowledge her, as he had forced his presence upon her. “Not until you agree to pay the full five thousand, or do neither of the men in this room possess the conviction to do what they said?” “Cynthia!” Harold managed a strangled cry. “Stop it! Just follow Mr. Marwood’s…” “With all due respect Daddy, shut up. You’re not the one who has to deal with me anymore.” There would be hell to pay, in body and in spirit, Cynthia could feel it in her bones. But for now, there was a transaction to be made, a negotiation of contract. Courage given by rage radiated from every pore. She could only hope her buyer would talk to her instead of the frozen Harold Shipman. Something was needed. Anything, to draw Mr Marwood’s attention to her, instead of the man she no longer considered a father. Turning back to her buyer, she said, “Perhaps the one ordering me around would see fit to supply his name?” ​