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The Bet (Darjeeling X QB)

Kyubey

Star
Joined
Oct 24, 2011
The Eternal Kingdom of Albion, by the Queen's Stead

Lawrence Bailey Jr., Esquire: The sole proprietor of Bailey and Gaurnam's export company. The business-minded child of a famed merchant who exports spice and exotic herbs. Aspires to be a Lord, often trying to mimic the mannerisms and the habits of High Society fellows. Often under pressure to behave in the same way and resents the fact that others look down on him for his father's humble beginnings. Has entered into an Asimovan bet with Fleur.

Shanoa Bluesummers: Lawrence's adopted sister from a lowly cobbler who saved his father's life during a shipwreck. Her father served with Lawrence's own in the Century War until their untimely death. Despite the scorn she receives for her skin color, Shanoa takes great pride in her family and often berates Lawrence for trying to be something he is not. She seeks knighthood through martial prowess. Shanoa greatly despises slavery and the mistreatment of the poor in Albion.

Sir Gillian H. Pearce, Earl of Portland: The current Earl of Portland, having succeeded his father after his death in the Century's War. Restless and rather hot-blooded, Gillian is a direct opposite to the self-indulgent nobility, instead preferring adventure and adrenaline-pumping hobbies. He is good friends with Lawrence, his peer from the Royal Academy. Brash and a bit reckless, he enjoys a good tussle. His nickname is 'Lord Forklift' for his particular interest in Antalyan wrestling.

Sir Edgar Lyons, Baron of Essex: Described to be for some as the perfect embodiment of Nobility: arrogant and overly indulgent, Edgar takes pride in everything he does all while looking down on everyone from his privileged point of view. Cruel and sadistic he does not hesitate to show any slave of their place even if it was not his own. His status of having Royal Blood as he is the Queen's nephew often allows him to act maliciously with impunity. Loves to eat sweets and looks down on Black-backers like Lawrence.

Sir Herman Gassenarl, Viscount of Orleans: A transplanted Noble, hailing from the monarchy of Saubure before the Glorious Revolution. As a foreign aide to the Queen, he arbitrates between the disputes of Lords and petty matters of the court. He is stern and often looks down on lesser nobles. Many rumor that he is bent, a rumor he neither denies nor accepts.

Sir Nathaniel Rivers, Viscount of Muldraugh: A snobby and arrogant lord who only surrounds himself with 'beautiful things'. Often derisively insulting others on their lack of manners or grace, like many nobles he revels in excess and luxury. He looks down on commoners and lower Nobles, often mistreating his slaves and judging others on the basis of their beauty or lack thereof. He is the esteemed son of Albion's famed admiral, Matthias of Muldraugh.

Dinesh and Ameera: The esteemed 'beautiful' servants of Lord Nathaniel, he prides in their skill and expertise as his servants. Orphans whom were purchased from Antalyan slave markets, they know only of loyalty to their Lord, but shows great attachment to each other. Dinesh often loathes how his master often mistreats his sister.

Kyra: A slavegirl who was born to a slave whom serviced in a jewel mine. Having been traded between hands all her life, she knows very little of the world outside. She yearns for freedom yet knows she has no place in such a cruel society. She has come to admire Fleur, whom she calls Emerald for the color of her eyes. Kyra knows very little English, only using the words she heard others say.

Annalise: A pleasure slave owned by Edgar. Often tells her to perform degrading acts in front of others only to berate her on being a loose and disgusting woman.



VOCABULARY


Century's War: The name of a world-wide conflict that spanned 4 conflicts over the course of 86 years. Numerous naval and land battles took place, eventually culminating to the Hafez accord when peace was signed in. Of all the countries involved, Erlija, Formoseland and Albion came out with gains in territory and naval rights.

Finery: A term used to describe toiletries such as perfumes, make-up and balms. Rosedust is a powder made from pulverized wild rosehips. Horse balm is an extract made from dried seahorses, an exotic cream used to liven up eyelashes. Dusting up is a term to mean putting on Finery aka Make-up. Nobles dedicate hours getting ready and thus calls preparation 'Dressing Hour'.

Proof: Virginity. Slaves who still have this are often four times as expensive as other slaves. Proof also reduces the risk of contracting sexual diseases so many masters would often seek them out for purchase.

Bent: Homosexuality. The derisive slang used to describe someone attracted to the opposite sex. Also has connotations such as skewed which only confers a mild interest in the same gender. Bent can also refer to bisexuality, though often the two terms are bunched up together.

Salt-Dunking: A method of torture where a prisoner is dipped head-first into freezing salt water. They are bound upside down and lowered down a barrel filled with salt water as a punishment or as a part of an interrogation. Prolonged use often crusts the eyes of the victim with the salt, to say nothing of the potential drowning hazard.

Bangha: The name of a far-eastern continent just South of Luoyang(China). Famous for it's exotic herbs and seemingly endless veins of gold, despite the riches Bangha is ravaged by nigh-perpetual war between two warring dynasties: the Marathas and the Mogals. While Albion keeps a neutral status between the two, Albion supplies both with weapons of war and drugs in return for spices and slaves. They are derisively called 'Broadtongues' by others speaking of a rumor that their characteristic accent was owed to the fact that their tongues are wider than others.

Malachar's Balm: A medicinal extract made from the Matua plant, native in Malachar (Madagascar). The herb itself sprouts only when kissed by moonlight. It has healing properties that prove ineffective on open wounds but can soften the harsh tone of scars and bruises long acquired. A cosmetic product used by soldiers, generals and on a few slaves.

 
Fleur Delacroix, the Bluebird: Loved by one but not the other, Fleur has found herself subject to her father's ruthless beatings and unkind words which has caused mutual resentment between the two. But for the love she bore her mother and for the love her mother bore for Savan, her husband, Fleur had no choice but to obey his commands. From basic tasks like cooking and cleaning, she was also made to work the streets like a common whore for extra pennies her father took from her. Though he never took his daughter for himself, many others did. She disliked the work and some nights came home empty handed. Fleur was a stubborn bird who sang sweetly and spoke brashly. She had scoured the streets so often with bruises about her arms and legs that the regulars had come to know her as simply Bluebird.

If there was one thing that could be said for her father, it was that he was a staunch supporter of monarchy and believed the other systems to be a crime against God and the laws of nature itself. After all, if God intended for many to rule and none at all, why did He place them in positions of power in the first place? It was also in his twisted thinking that he owned his wife and he owned his daughter. Yet it was whispered that Fleur had been born of a different sire, but it was never spoken to Savan's face and if he had heard the rumors, he never showed it save for more beatings delivered to his daughter.

When the Revolution came on swift, unjust wings, the monarchy crumbling to pieces he took his belongings and fled to Albion before he would bend to any democratic system. He had heard of its powerful Queen who was rumored to be searching for immortality and thought to make a living there. Fleur did not see the difference, save for an even poorer home and unfamiliar territory. Her hair of ink black and eyes of dark emeralds made for a popular combination and soon her father was beginning to sell her to private owners for larger sums of money. From street whore to prostitute, it made no difference. She was twenty when she was sold away to an establishment that also dabbled in the slow declining slave trade.

Fleur was as stubborn as ever, seemingly unbroken by her mistreatment as she knows it only to be a labor of her love for those she holds dear. She knows not of her mother's state but Fleur knew Savan would not hurt her. She only hopes that the money she gains will make her mother's life easier. Yet in this Asimov Bet that promises a sum only dreamed of, Fleur knows the terms and knows she can win with ease. Her spirit is still strong, her gaze is fierce and her hatred for men like her father burns stronger with every passing day. They will never make a slave of her.
 
"So, Shane, how do I look?" Lawrence took time to freshen up, adding a slight touch of red to liven up his features. After dusting himself the boy presented himself to his sister who promptly sneered at him. "Pompous, unrealistic and overly padded. And is that rosedust I see? Come now; there is no masculinity to be found in powdering!" Lawrence had no response, sighing as he turns to face her.

"Look, I know you dislike high society rituals but you ha- w-what are you doing?!" The Blonde tried to ward away the sponge. When it came to a ball in the Lower House he spared no expense to dress suitably well: rumor has it that even the Queen's Aide would attend the inauguration of The Wallace Hallway so Lawrence felt it was only right to look as best he could. "Wha-! H-hey! Stay away from me, Shane!" He tried to push off his sister away, but the pinkish-blonde lady only pressed further. "Don't resist, Lawrence this is for your own good!"

"Huh?! Own good? This rosedust was worth hundred silver pounds! Why are you just trying to- HUAAAH!"

"Just stay still an- EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEKK!"

*CRASH*

His stand-up came tumbling down, make-up and fineries knocked aside to the ground. The Merchant's son pushed his sister off the side. For all that he loved Shanoah for, he often disliked getting ready for her. When she was younger she seldom minded being asked to put on corsets or flowing dresses but as the tomboy grew older she became more conscious about putting on frivolous dresses. And definitely about how he dressed too. She was always opposed to him dusting up, even if the nobles did it then it was detestable in her eyes.

"Agh! My Horse-balm! Guuuh! You ruined it again, Shane!"

"Ruined it? What are you talking about?! You've no need to dust up like a harlot; You're wonderful the way you are!"

Lawrence was frustrated, but these were just ordinary arguments they would have. "The way I am isn't enough! What will the Queen's aide say if he saw me unpowdered like a street urchin!? I will become a laughing stock!" Shanoah was always so touchy about dressing up: who could blame her, with the frilly dresses and the rib-breaking corsets she had to put through. Her preferred code of dress were her tunic, cotton slacks and loafers. Not even silk! She disliked bent colors, as she called it. She had a dislike towards nobles and she made no secret of it. Perhaps that must be why he tried to distance himself from her...

The young lady merely folded her arms at her chest and sneered at his suggestion. "Not like they would have anyways. You know thse upstarts don't like merchants anyways. Well I am not going to let you powder no matter what, Lawrence! Not even if you treat me to O'Rieley's!" She pouts dramatically.

Lawrence sighed. Seriously, did every dressing hour have to pass by so stressfully?![/size]

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"What good's this one if her proof's soiled?! Damnit Markus, I didn't ask to be disappointed now, did I?!"

The lash sounded out loudly, prompting Kyra to shiver. Thankfully the crop was not aimed towards the slave; for some time now the blonde noble named Edgar was quick to aim his implement at the slave trader. Glancing into the verdant eyes of a black-haired slave, the noble talked with distaste over at the slaver who covered with his hands over his head. Quite a funny reversal with a noble laying lashes onto their cruel vendor. The woman in question, however, definitely had more coming to her.

Kyra knew very little; having changed hands she knew only of a life in slavery. Packaged on rotting wooden stockades she was roughly led into the holding corrals of a marble building. As one of the few slaves whose proof had yet to be soiled, she could only shiver not wanting to imagine the eyes of the greedy fellow who would take her virginity.

And in these corrals, she met her. The only word that Kyra had called the woman was by the name 'Emerald'. Her eyes were so beautiful, utterly captivating like the verdant shade of the trees she once glimpsed in a fantasy where she was free...raven-black hair glistened even under the repression of slavery. She was a wonderful existence...utterly spellbinding..

*CRACK!*

The whimpering Slave trader was quick to dispel the slave girl from her thoughts. Shying away as she tries to cover her bare-naked from with her shackled hands, she tried hard not to rouse the blonde nobleman's fury. He walks right up to Emerald, his crop resting right against her chin and forcing her head to tilt up to look at him.

"You have pretty eyes. I'd love to drink that in while I'm pumping you full with my seed!" The curly-haired nobleman spat on her face, definitely taking advantage of the fact her hands were shackled above her head. The last time she had free hands...a guard broke his nose against her hand. Even after a good round of salt dunking she still remained defiant, that dangerous gleam in her eyes more than enough of a challenge for all who would gaze her way. Yet, the noble continued to derisively insult her in between capricious gropes with his gloved hands.

Kyra was envious of Emerald. She could only wish to have a fraction of her courage...
 
Inwardly, Fleur allowed herself a glimmer of self-served satisfaction. Her proof had been sold away years ago and with it, her value as a slave. It did not take much to realize that much more than that had been taken by the way the green-eyed girl stood naked with nary a blush on her unmarked cheeks. But the trader had not told the noble the whole truth of this until it was too late. His slaves had been penned in like cattle and given no leave to move, or were otherwise chained or locked down before the nobles had begun to infest the market like fleas. She did not know of her companions nor was she willing to turn her head away from the doors.

But Fleur was all too aware of the mousey eyes of the woman who called herself a friend. Ofttimes the other slave would attempt to strike up a conversation with the black haired girl but Kyra would be met with silence or quiet answers. To Fleur, making friends would not send cold hard cash back to her mother. Friends would only serve to soften her heart and soften her resolve. Slaves were a dying breed but still ever abundant around these parts, especially with nobles such as the man squeezing her breasts and waist roughly. She knew that she may not see Kyra ever again tomorrow, or the next day or the next. Fleur was only convinced further when Kyra mentioned that she was still a maiden.

Barely a flicker of anything but spite crossed her eyes every time the coiled whip was lashed about the trader's ears who quivered, simpering on the cool marble floor which seemed too clean for the likes of them. Fleur held no passing love for the man or for anyone else within her line of sight. She would have spit at the man holding the crop too, especially when it glanced about her chin and wrenched her gaze upwards to the blonde-haired male. Up close he seemed far less noble than he did five minutes ago. The man was a sadist even with his golden waves and seemingly slender build. His breath stank and his dark eyes bore in them a perversity Fleur had seen many times before. She had enough sense to keep her spittle in her mouth, but her eyes remained alight, a blazing green fire as she stared back unflinchingly.

Her arms ached as her hands hung loosely just above her head; her punishment for not staying her tongue and fist the last time. Fleur had no doubts that the man might have her tongue out just for sending out even a sliver of spit on his precious noble hide. "If I were to close my eyes, then you would not see them at all, sir." Fleur finally spoke, her voice sweet and surprising for one with such ferocity. The inferno never died but she laughed prettily all the same. The groping did not bother her, no more than his lewdness. They were all languages she was intimately familiar with and she wore it like the sheepskins they were. Her goal here was to survive, and to survive she would have to steel herself and bring herself low.

If she had the use of her hands. Fleur might have slapped the noble's own away teasingly but hard. Instead she shifted her body as if it were responding to the blonde's touch. "Unbind my wrists, sir, and you may drink in my eyes whilst I drink something far more suited to my tastes." The Bluebird lacked the courteous speech of the royals and nobles milling about but the husky intonations of the raven-haired girl was usually more than convincing enough. She knew she could not be overt in her defiance. Not to this one, who radiated cruelty and was like to kick a sick puppy if only to make it sicker.

Fleur leaned forward the best she could, resisting the urge to tear the man's stupid noble ear off and instead whispered. "My proof might've been soiled but I am worth a thousand of these air headed slaves you see around you." Markus' punishments were easy to resist, even if they hurt when it happened. There were worst things. She would have the noble purchase her for his own and... "Unbind my wrists, sir." She repeated, not yet begging but gracious enough. Even if her tongue was torn out, perhaps she could throttle this man to death before anyone could stop her.​
 
Who would have known such malice shone within the curly-haired noble's eyes? Kyra did not notice it, yet the slave-maiden could not comprehend the cruelty that he was truly capable of. His hand moved quickly, striking her cheek with considerable force. Or as considerable as a man like him could muster. Even Markus the Slave trader could hit harder than him. "You dare speak without being addressed, slave? Do you wish to learn your place?" The boy grasped the hand whom he struck her with; it was evident the pain from the recoil was definitely too much for him. "To threaten the Immortal Queen's nephew. You shall rue the moment you decided to turn that tongue against me!" All words he may be, but the hateful fire in his eyes was proof that she was definitely in for quite a night.

"Markus!" The blonde barked out angrily as the cowering slave trader attempted to straighten himself when he was beckoned. "Yes, Mi'lord?" He asked, batting an angry glance over at Fleur and towards Kyra. The latter shivered in her stockades, glancing away in hopes that the noble's wrath may not fall upon her. "I rescind my refusal. I will purchase this one. If I do not see her at the Lower House by tonight...consider yourself piked." The boy's hateful glare caused the portly slave trader to shiver, leaning in as he felt the boy's delicate fingers pinch his ear. "Make sure she is cowed and obidient by nightfall. I want her to regret even spitting those words out at me."

The boy dusted his feet at the door as Markus slinked away from his path. Kyra and a few other slaves were relieved; if not her they were certainly glad not to have ended up as chattel to such a cruel man. "I shall be seeing you tonight, slave." The boy chuckled with a hand covering his mouth, "You will be begging for death by the time I am finished with you tonight. Hohohoho!" Edgar's expression darkened with sadistic malice as the door clamored with a thud. With the nobleman's presence gone Markus was quick to act, ham-fistedly throwing a punch at her stomach. Grasping her vibrant ebony strands, he forced Fleur to look right to his eyes. "You have alot of nerve talking back to Albionan Royalty like that...but I suppose I should thank you. I couldn't market damaged goods like you to any of these people." He whispered, spittle spraying from his mouth as he spoke. He soon let go as he motions for the guards to take her away.

"Straighten this woman up, will you boys? Do whatever you want. Not like Lord Edgar will mind this having a few new bruises!" He threatened, leaving the bound slave to the mercy of two of his guards. Kyra shrunk where she was bound, glancing longingly towards Emerald as she was dragged away.

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It definitely was going to be a long night, especially when the slightly obese guard from yesterday recovered from the ferocious right hook she gave to him. With clubs and ropes, they truly did not hold back. Fitting a drool-soaked rusty metal bar between her teeth, her wrists were brought up behind her and tied up to a length of rope. Suspended with her the weight of her body supported only by that rope she was pulled inches away from the floor. With her body undefended like such they mete out blow after blow, enjoying the way her hanging body swayed with each blow. Yet time and time again, every strike failed to produce even a single tear to leave her eyes.

And there was only so much they could do before they damaged her completely. And so she was left to hang in strappado for quite some time, only to be lowered down to avoid dislocation of her arms. Thrown into a moldy cell to contemplate her actions (Like she would anyways) hours after Markus stepped inside, slamming the door closed behind him. "I know you're not repentant for what you have said to Lord Edgar, but I'm definitely sure you'll be begging for his mercy by the time night runs it's course. I hear he has had his slaves maimed and permanently injured for his own cruel entertainment...perhaps you ought to be more subservient now." he threatens. With the light of the moon slowly replacing the crimson colors of sundown, it was now time to march her to where she would be 'sold'.
 
The strike was not unexpected but Fleur winced all the same. Even if the blow did not sting as much as the beatings her father had given her, she could taste the blood from where her teeth had bitten down on her tongue. A pink rose blossomed on a single, pale cheek as the raven-haired slave worked her jaw to loosen the numbness from her face. She did not reply to what she knew was the noble's rhetoric question; giving him a reason to strike her again was not at the top of her list of things to accomplish today. Yet she could barely hold back a smile as the blonde grasped at his wrist - his soft flesh was not used to such abuse it seemed and Fleur was far tougher than many would be lead to believe with her build. Her nose wrinkled in disgust at his words - nephew of the Queen? That meant nothing to her. Put a crown on a pig and it would still be a pig. The same went for kings and their jewel encrusted draperies and fineness. Nobility who paraded their status around like a badge were the worst kind and Fleur saw not only hatred but a childish, sadistic immaturity.

As Markus was unkindly roared at, Fleur stole a glance at the girl called Kyra who looked to be so thin and small, she was like to slip through the stockade sooner rather than later. What a sight that might be, but the maiden may be too craven even then to make a run for it. She ran her tongue over her teeth softly as the conversation played out in the background, her purchase by the blonde noble discussed none too subtly within earshot of everyone in the marble courtyard. Fleur thought she had been persuasive and polite enough but the nobleman either had wax in his ears or mush between them. Certainly he would be disappointed. She was not so easily broken, as her impressive collection of old, white scars were of any indication to prior mistreatment. The green fire had never once gone out and Fleur intended to stoke them for as long as she lived.

The noble's departure was punctuated by a cruel hooting laugh, ugly in delivery and ugly in meaning. Fleur simply glared at him, all notion of simple seduction gone as his tailcoat disappeared behind the door and the slave-trader's fist slamming into her stomach. That had been unexpected and Fleur could not hold back a gasp as her breath suddenly came in short, pained wheezes. She coughed as the ache spread through her, likely the punch would leave a lovely, discolored bruise for her new master's pleasure before long. With her chin wrenched upwards by the roots of her hair, Fleur could only bare and grit her teeth, one eye shut as if that would lessen the strain though the only liquid that dripped from her face was Markus' own frothy spit.

"You're... welcome..." Fleur managed to reply between gritted teeth and a ghost of a smile played upon her lips twisted in pain, then hidden relief as she was finally released from Markus' grip. Her scalp throbbed as did her stomach and wrists and there was no honey coating the matter. Many more parts of her would hurt soon, of that fact she knew as two of the slaver's guards, cruel as their employer, marched up to her, unchaining her from the post and dragging her away from the wooden beam and the burning gaze of Kyra the maiden. She did not give the guards a good time of it at first, struggling between their beefy, firm grips and snapping her teeth at them though that only earned her another slap laid upon the fresh bruise already present on her cheek.

The taste of rust was familiar on her tongue with flakes of it falling away as the bar was forced between her lips. Fleur had almost broken her teeth on it once and her jaw had ached fiercely after but by now she had come to appreciate its presence even if she did not like what it stood for. Being able to bit against something stopped her from biting her own tongue off and helped to center the pain. Tonight was no different. Time slowed and stopped at inconsistent intervals after the first blow that had driven itself straight into her stomach, deliberately aiming for Markus' brand. Her suspended frame swung precariously after each slap or punch, her wrists clenched tightly at her spine as she clamped down harder onto the metal, pretending it was that noble's stupid nose or one of the guard's fingers. Bruise lay with bruise to birth new ones and they were all of varying shapes and colors; some a sickly, pale yellow and others an angry purple-blue while the slaps left her skin flushed with crimson. By the end, her body was sticky with blood and screaming in pain.

All Fleur could think about was her mother and the rust heavy on her tongue. She must have passed out for a short while after her tormentors had left her, for she was quickly roused awake when the creaky iron door slammed open and she was dropped unceremoniously to the ground. Left bound by the wrists, the bar was removed from her mouth which dripped saliva as it was pulled away as it always was. From there, the dirty prison was next with barely a few strands of straw covering the filthy floor. Fleur leaned herself against the wall with her legs curled up tightly beneath her. It did nothing for the pain and she was glad of it: she would not forget this, as she had never forgotten every other beating she had been given. By the guards, by Markus, by nameless men and their faceless companions. By her father.

Fleur awoke once more, the sounds of the door opening and closing an irritation now to her still ringing ears (they had thought it prudent to only box her about the head once or twice, leaving her face the least damaged). Markus' voice was a distant growl, unimportant to her as her mind flickered. It was hard to keep her thoughts intact for the numerous pangs of pain all over her frame. It was hard to keep up with them. She would like nothing more than to spit at the slaver too but she had no moisture left in her mouth.

"A name to a face..." Fleur finally managed to say between wracking coughs, her voice raw yet no less insincere. Lord Edgar. More like Lord Mouse. Kyra seemed to have more courage than him. She smiled, her thin shoulders lifting into a shrug. Pitiful, but still a shrug. "I have never begged more than I needed to. Not tonight or tomorrow night," she licked her lips, cracked and covered in dried blood. Bright emeralds peered out from the gloom, one smaller than the other as she looked through a swollen eye. It did not lessen the fire, and the fire did not die. "Lord Edgar would have an easier time sucking himself off and you tell him I said so."
 
Of all the slaves he had brought low, of all the people whom shivered at the crack of the whip, not a single person came close to exhibiting the defiance that the Bluebird had demonstrated. Had fate been a little kinder she would have eclipsed even Brandhardt the Undying's bravery in battle. The depravity of guards at his employ could reduce even the most hardened or mercenaries into tears and begging husks after a night in the torture cell yet not once did Fleur crack under the pressure that they forced against her. "That could change by tonight. I took care not to damage you too much. But the way you ticked off that kid made me think he'll really be cutting loose. I wouldn't be surprised if you ended up as pig food by morn's daybreak." Uncharacteristically strange for the Slave trader was the fact that he did not grope nor fondle any part of her. He hated to admit it, but perhaps he was going to miss the Bluebird...

"As much as I'd love to say that...it'd hurt business, you know?" It was strange for him to reply in such a casual manner, atleast one that sounded almost so patronizing in a sense. "Brats like him are what gets me coin in my pocket. Old bones like me can't go back to the Royal Navy, especially after deserting like I did." There was definitely more to Markus than what it may seem. He too bore scars atypical of the ones created by whips and brands; they were the marks of glory and a reminder of the comrades he has lost. "If you're gonna go...stick a big one in that bent kid's eye, will you?" Markus smirked gently, taking a seat. "Don't care if it costs you a limb or two. Show that pompous kid what for." The way Markus spoke sounded as if he conversed casually with a friend. That must definitely have been the case, given how all of his had passed on during the Century's war.

Whether she became food for cattle or not, Markus couldn't really care. In a way, her defiant show inspired in him a brief sense of pride. He loathed having to serve the fatted calf that was the nobility in Albion. So many good men and women died in war all for what? Just so that these nobles can continue bathing in wine and eating in banquets? She could take it as she desired; whichever the case, Markus did not come to try and beat some sense into her. After all, he tried that numerous times; what was the result aside from failure? Turning away, he snaps his finger as one of the guards from before enters, throwing roughly to Bluebird a ratty black fabric, long enough to be used to cover her prone form and to provide adequate warmth. Drinking in that guard's frustration of having to reward the same Slave who broke his nose was definitely a good serving of karmic justice as he was quick to leave. "Good riddance, Bluebird. And may you show that pompous prick hell when you become his." The Slavetrader's voice echoes from outside as their footsteps gradually fade away. Perhaps they wanted to give her a chance to rest before tonight...for only fate knows just what that cruel noble has in store for Fleur...

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Perhaps one could take it as a show of mercy, but Fleur was spared the arduous walk down London's cobblestone roads and was treated to a carriage ride chained to the wall as such. Granted she was still restrained like a common criminal awaiting retribution before the Grand Jury, but atleast she was spared the tiring march to the building. Hewn from marble and stone, the Lower House of Lords was quite the sight even for something that London's nobility wasn't entirely interested in keeping. The Night was young and the preparations was busy.

Grasping onto her chains, the guards pulled harshly, tagging along the Sauburean woman as she was forced to march. While clothed in a thin black robe, the guard who escorted her decided instead to reach over an tear the cloak off, a hand gently striking against her rear. "That belongs to Markus, you bitch." The guard jeers along, pacing away in fear of possible retaliation. Bound ankle and wrist she may be, but even that did not discount safety from the fiery Slave. The two had their fun, only to be met by a pair of servants near the entrance.

"Good evening. We are here to acquire Lord Edgar's merchandise." The woman speaks in a refined and dignified manner, her accent natural and rather flowing despite the difference in her ethnicity and the language she spoke so fluently. After an exchange of papers and a seal, the male counterpart glares harshly at the men as they commented on the woman's shapely form. Had it not been for her hand grasping against his wrist there may have been an altercation. "And you. You must be Lord Edgar's purchase. By heavens you are absolutely filthy!" The Male protested in slight disgust. BUt it definitely was not towards Fleur; it definitely had to be in her time as a servant. Up close...the two wore collars. They were in no better place than she had.

The woman walked closer, holding the keys to her chains. The male stops her. "Sister! Is that so safe?" Perhaps he was correct in saying that; something hinted the young Banghan slave that. His sister seemed relaxed, instead inserting the key despite her brother's protest. "Worry not, Dinesh." The woman's touch was gentle, her hand softly stroking against a scar on her hand. "...How unfortunate. There is only so much Malachar's Balm can cover..." She speaks in a rather sorrowful tone, even as her brother Dinesh slowly places a robe around her naked form. The slight flush on his cheeks ought to denote a slight attraction.

"What is your name?" The girl asked. "Ah! Forgive me my lack of manners. My name is Ameera, servant to the esteemed Viscount of Muldraugh. And this is my brother Dinesh." The boy seemed reluctant to return a glance, instead carrying the heavy shackles she was chained with. "We have been instructed to clean and prepare you for tonight's performance. I trust you will come, no?" The woman held out her hand much to the boy's mistrust, evident in his eyes. Escape was all the more possible, yes, but the plausibility of such? For the girl to have removed her shackles despite the boy's insistence...it either had to be her naivete or her confidence.
 
Fleur spat on the ground, though her mouth was too dry to produce much at all. It was more so the gesture that indicated what she thought of Markus’ statement. “He’s just a child, ready to throw a tantrum every time something wrong happens.” Her eyes flickered suspiciously at the slave trader, who was being unusually kind. At the very least, he had not hit her though her stomach still strongly remembered his fist driving its way into her gut. The dark haired girl shifted a little closer to the wall as if she were hiding her belly away. “Being pig food is better than being made a plaything of that boy.” She spat again. Death was not an attractive option to be sure but she would never reveal as much to Markus. There was no love between them and she despised him as much as the others for what he stood for and what he had done to both her and the other slaves. Even if it was just a part of his job, it was still his choice, and it took a special kind of man to partake it work like this. Fleur would not have been surprised if she found her step-father to be of Markus’ make. If she didn’t know any better, they would have been one and the same.

“Those nobles are all the same to me.” She scowled, a dark shadow painted upon her dirt streaked features. “You deserted to serve against the people rather than for,” Fleur said bitterly, one of the first signs of emotion she had revealed in the past few nights. Markus’ voice gave her no reprieve but at the very least the lack of contact made her more willing to cooperate and converse. “I’ll do more than ruin his eye, and I won’t be doing it for you.” Her eyes followed the slave trader’s form as he lowered himself into the old seat, his tone still retaining a sense of familiarity. Fleur would not miss him but perhaps he was right. Lord Edgar seemed like a horrible man and however many times Markus had her beaten or whipped, it was never to kill. She did not respond to him and they sat in silence for some minutes. The snap of Markus’ fingers made her digits twitch, as the sound usually preceded a beating or five. A scowling guard approached her carrying something and she twitched again as the soft object was thrown against her naked body, the man lacking not in resentment. Fleur smiled sweetly at him as he and Markus left, tapping her own nose lightly even if the gesture made every bone in her body ache.

Offering neither reply nor farewell, she threw the rags on herself; it looked a little bit like a potato sack but it offered her some hint of modesty and hid her bruised flesh away from the chilly night. The wall was hard and cold against her spine but she huddled against it anyway. Weakness she would never show in front of another but alone and locked away, she allowed her eyes to shut. The fire burned low, bright green to a simmer as she filled her thoughts of happy memories and devout promises. Her eyes were dry, not a tear shed since the day her mother had almost sung her to sleep and not a day ever after and now, she would give them all just to hear her mother sing again. The Bluebird sang to herself instead, her voice soft and dainty, the sound rising in her cell like a beautiful echo which faded slowly as the bird herself fell into a dreamless slumber.




Dawn greeted her in fetters and rough shoving from her prison, dragged from her sleep and to her feet as she was taken away from her slave pen. The others were still deep in their own dreams or nightmares and the dark-haired Kyra too. Fleur knew she would be given no chance to say her goodbyes, nor did she need it or want to. The others were probably relieved that it had not been them who drew the ire of the noble but Fleur herself. In some way, it should have made her feel righteous but she felt nothing of the sort. She was taken; groped, slapped and grabbed along the way as guards were wont to do but the raven-haired slave gave them not a lick of attention. Even when the rags were ripped away from her, she only pinned the guard with a cool eyed glare, her chains rattling slightly. They were wary of her, and it was all the more necessary to give them a reason to be afraid even with her chains.

Their journey was stopped and they ground to a halt in front of duo, a male and female. The fairer one spoke with grace, vastly different from slave and master alike. Fleur was used to the necessary papers and lines to sign with splotched ink. She only noticed when the man addressed her with what appeared to be an insult though his gaze blazed elsewhere. She offered no response, though she licked her dry lips again. Her legs were shaking, aching even as she stood staunch, firm and proud in her bonds. The guards seemed to mutter amongst themselves, disgruntled that the man should talk to them in such a way for it was only now did Fleur see the gleam of a collar about his and the other’s neck. When the woman approached her with a key, Fleur held her hands out subconsciously and even when the male questioned the woman, she was freed nevertheless and there were gentle fingers upon her wrist. Fleur caught herself before any noise escaped her. Kindness was not something she was used to and these fellow slaves could very well be under their Master’s command to lull her into a false sense of security.

She tilted her head. Ameera and Dinesh, names that were as foreign to her as this land was but they were pleasant enough. “Fleur,” she replied flatly as she rubbed her bruised wrists to soothe them. The Bluebird knew she could easily turn on the guards and while she could not overpower them, she could perhaps break one of their noses again, or even the slaves in front of her. The woman seemed not to care for her own safety and Fleur considered that too – and yet, she found herself taking the outstretched hand against her better judgement. She could have escaped but she would have been cut down before she got too far. She was hungry, thirsty and tired and no matter how much will a slave had, it was nothing against the face of steel and well-fed men. “I will follow as I don’t seem to have a choice.”
 
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