Thar Shaddin

Winter, 122PW

Querida Solana had not dressed herself in any memory. What had begun in the interior hold of Tereze, her father's manor, had been finished in Castle Morua. The girl had grown up unaware of anyone's power but those who lay directy in her ascension. She had made a mistake.

It was a new experience to be cast before old Morua himself, with her peers ringing silent around the courtyard. It was the savage quiet of titillating scandal that they pressed behind their fans and hands, whispering to each other and staring, staring, staring. She had been stared at before. That wasn't the impossibility; it was the sole, lonely words that came from the twisted sneer of Morua that had sealed it.

I have my secrets. His eyes told her, even as his lips moved in a stately farce, a dance of lies Solana knew quite well. Who are you to break them?

I would have, she thought even as her mouth hung open, I would have cast you to the dogs. You knew nothing.

But I know everything. You are only another pawn. I have seen many broken, and as with all broken things, I will throw you away.

What is being thrown away?

They stripped her of all her fine garments, many of which she had purchased with her own money. Beraza was her father's bloodline, but she had not asked for money from them in years. She used them when they could be used, but it wasn't until then she actively wished to see representation from them. She saw her mother, tearstained with art and gilt, and even then Solana knew she'd been outcast.

She fumbled on a shift. She walked with an escort. She was cast in chains.

Outcaste was too soft, she realized too late. She should have been killed, but old Morua was capering over the grave he'd dug her. Let her walk into it herself he was thinking. In small, tight quarters without courtiers around he told her so much more, with grave and heavy heart. She tried not to see the glee on his lips.

"You are a traitor to Corezo. I will recoup your betrayal in bishani, from your sale to the south."

I am glad to have crushed your poor insolence beneath my bootheel. You weren't even an asp, only a mere pest.

She was practiced at reading the unspoken words. It didn't matter anyways when you were bound up and shoved in with too many other bodies. At first she was too shocked and numb, with chafed skin and dry lips. Then she was angry, and scared, mostly scared, when she was locked in at the bottom of a boat. Vomit and its smell was ingrained into her then.

She thought she would die. There were too many noises, too little to control. She was spun around as a top, one shallow impression to the next. Blood, pain, death, filth. She should be shocked, like a proper lady, but she could not even gain the distance needed for such a spectator's emotion. Boat to wagon, wagon to chain gang, chain gang to holding cells.

Enough days of hunger, and she scrabbled with the rest at the mere sight of food. She had nothing but what she could hold onto, and even then it might not be hers. Her sanity was the only thing left, and it barely held the line after her dignity had been stolen. She had fleas. She couldn't sleep. She wasn't fully cognizent, only half aware of her surroundings and their dingy, stained boundaries. She stared at her nails, and barely saw how they were jagged and unkempt.

It was the selling block that shook her consciousness back into working order. Fresh air, though stained with rioting odors of human flesh, waste and the vague promise of food. She stood in a pen, barefoot and dirty, hands up to keep her balance.

"Strong hands good legs ox-health working boy, mebbe toy for yon lay-dees, fifty I see fifty! Haul yer po-sessions work yer fields, seven five? Seven five! See them mucles they'll stand you well no tellin how many uses you can find, good mind, docile as a plowhorse -- eighty! Do I hear ninety?"

And on and on behind the heads of her fellow captives. She blinked, and looked upwards at the wooden stage, the selling blocks where slaves were solidly chained hand and foot to stare dazedly over the gathered crowd, hypnotized by the auctioneer's spinning words. Men and women prowled around the holding pens, seeking out their own favorites, occasionally asking for one to be let out so they could check teeth and physical condition themselves.

Beyond them, the city worked seamlessly, as people scattered orderly through the square, to merchant's wagons down one street, and to stately buildings down another. Guild signs hung proudly, and other signs peeked out knowingly here and there, slyly proclaiming their business with candid decor.

She was jostled to the edge of the pen when one slave sold and another was taken out to be proudly complimented in the most base way possible, a long list of on the spot drivel designed to highlight the obvious along with the most prized traits. Whatever earned profit, of course. Solana had never seen a slave auction before -- it was too far beneath her -- but she understood it all too well, even with her hair a nasty braid behind her, and her stomach gnawing with impatient hunger at her sides.

She stood ramrod straight, staring holes into the auctioneer and wishing for her rapier. Jab, jab, jab.

Rope. She almost would have preferred chains, as rope had irritated the skin on her wrists so badly that they burned every time she moved them. This was hardly a time to be picky about such pointless things, though. Her life had never really been a pleasant one, but it had least been more predictable than it was now. Semerkhet, a place she knew nothing about. The races and languages were more variable here, and as compared to her home, there was far more tolerance of magic and the beasts that dealt with it.

The werewolves had not treated her well. She was not accustomed to good treatment but it was difficult to retain any bit of sanity with the wolves. Her body still had dark, colorful bruises all over from them beating her. There were claw marks on her thighs especially and breasts, which had been coated in a special cream to prevent scarring (courtesy of her supervisor). Her hair had become greasy, with an unhealthy number of split ends. Her painted lips were chapped and the sweat coupled with the poor make up had given her skin imperfections. Her supervisor was supposed to take care of this. Her supervisor was also a dick.

Stella leaned on the sign post of "Jamil Tavern", advertising herself by crossing her legs and keeping her dress pulled up just above the knee. She grinned and waved to the faceless people who passed by her, looking them up and down in a practiced way, pretending to be interested in them. She giggled every so often, adjusting her clothes in such a way as to give potential customers a peek at her thighs, bouncing her breasts, guiding her leg up the sign post as if moving in on it periodically.

This was why people kept Stella. This was why people liked Stella.
Two other whores were with her that day. One was standing on the other side of the Supervisor, dressed in blue and looking displeased. The Supervisor, an unhumanly large, brawny man, kicked her shin with his boot and she squealed. "Smile pret-ty for us now, Jule," he hissed, his deep, thick voice strained with the threat of another kick. Jule forced a smile.

Potential clients who moved closer to get information were received with a false warmness, while Stella told them the time and place that she would be available. Information flooded the surroundings as slaves were bought and sold, and businesses struggled amongst the crowd in the square.

The dull roar lulled Stella as she dealt with the potential business. Sweat collected on her brow but she did not bother to wipe it. A man in fairly expensive clothes swept up near to her, keeping a pompous, dignified posture as he looked over the whores. His eye casually wandered over Stella's cleavage, and he smiled at her.
"I have never seen you at Jamil before," he said. "At what hour might I have a visit?" His hand touched hers in that falsely gentleman's way before he moved his fingers up her arm and over her breasts. The Supervisor shot a tense look to Stella.
"You'll do wehll ta keep y'ur hands ta y'urself, sir," she said. "Fer nuw at leas'." She pushed his hand away from her and nodded. "Werkin' tanight if you want ter swing by," he said, hoping to shoe the man before he did something stupid. He had that evil look in his eye and she recognized it well. She tried not to show her discomfort. It was something she was remarkably good at.
"I have money now," he said, and shoved his hand over her neck.

He did it in such a way that Stella felt threatened. She was good at what she did. She was good at bringing people in and pleasing them. She hated doing it. She pretended not to hate it.
But when he grabbed her she snapped, and before he could even take away his hand she pulled her knife from within her frock and sliced it through the air. The Supervisor grabbed her immediately but the damage was done.
Luckily it was not so bad. Just a missing finger.

Thus cursing ensued. There was shouting, hitting, and the Supervisor struggling to keep Stella back and the client away from her. The other whores shuffled together in fear but tried to continue their business.

An hour later the man with nine fingers was gone, and Stella was allowed to return to her business, although her hands had been bound with rope because the Supervisor didn't know "what the feck else to do wit' this stupid bitch".

Nearby, dirty slaves were being sold not ten paces from her position.
She looked utterly insane, grinning at potential clients while her hands were bound to keep her from attacking again. The Supervisor rubbed his bald head. He'd taken her knife away before. How the fuck did she always manage to get it back? Damn it.

There was a jolt to Solana's system when she realized from the numbered tags on the slaves that she would be next up to the block. Awareness flooded her system. The air around her seemed to waver, and suddenly every detail was reaching out to grab her attention. They were going to sell her! She was going to be sold! Have an owner! Querida Solana Beraza de Morua did not have an owner; she was too important!

Time slowed to a desperately racing crawl. She looked slack jawed at the people around her. The buyers, the sellers, the busybodied rumor mongers working their tongues over the available stock. Stock! To be owned! Disgust, hopeless and cold, filled her body up where once ambition had lain. This was it for her. Her eyes drifted around the outskirts of the square, memorizing them. Perhaps she would end up like that worthless chit, hands tied, selling sex and other nasty business deals.

Slaves around her had noticed the girl too, and they were whispering about how crazy she was. Some of them had been to the auction block before, so nervousness hadn't turned their guts to water. The girl cut her clients when they displeased her? Really? Really. And suddenly Solana was eyeing the young woman as a potential tool.

But wasn't it too late for that? Wasn't she done, ready to die?

No, she thought, as she looked at her new peers. Slaves. Her lip curled.

No, she thought, as she looked at the auctioneer. Hatred boiled in her.

No. She thought, as she looked over the potential buyers, and they pulled her out to mount the block and speak-sing her valuable traits: reading and writing, fencing and math, work your books teach your children be a lady in waiting for your young lady-child!

Solana kept staring at the young woman with the bound hands. Her mind churned.

She swayed lightly, her hands bound tightly behind her so that they made her wrists itch furiously. She ignored this, grinning instead suggestively at her potential clients, who were much more ready to shuffle away from her when they realized that her hands were in fact tied together. There were some men, and the occasional woman, who would approach her to gather information and she would behave normally, pretending as if she had free use of her hands and instead making up for it by using gestures with her body. She ignored the stares from the dirty slaves on the block and those waiting for the block; such sights and sounds had become standard for her in this horrible place. Oh how she hated it here; she didn't want to focus on all those disturbing little details around her, and remember that she was in a place where slavery was still legal.

Stella had tried to detach herself from the reality of her situation, and the reality of the place she found herself in. She had reached some of the dirtiest, foulest parts of society. She had to look at that darkness every day, and she had lost all hope of ever finding that mythical idea of happiness that seemed so common in the ideals of young women these days.

She could have been married. She could have had children. Why did it have to be her who was dealt such a life?

Stella didn't really have much time for self-pity, however. She certainly wasn't above it, but it took all of her energy simply to stay focused rather than looking at the ugly slave being sold. She could feel a pair of eyes burning her face, and for one split second she flitted her gaze to the slave and glared.

Even as a whore she felt above such a person. She was far prettier, and certainly far smarter, after all. She was proven wrong by the calls of the seller, who spoke of the slave as being educated and all that crap. Math? Really? What use was such a thing in this world?
She gritted her teeth for a moment, and tried to once more ignore the selling block and its annoying slaves.

It was not uncommon for certain aristocratically trained slaves to show up at block. Solana's long train of qualities did not excite much comment; didn't excite much of anything but Solana's own overblown ego. It was with this that she met the eyes of the whore, who gave her such a tart look that Solana felt compelled to strike out. But, she did not want to seem fiery. The thought caught her at the hindmost part of her consciousness, so she forcibly relaxed her posture, and let her features sink into a grave docility.

She did not release the slave's stare until the other gave it up first. Interesting. She was suddenly jolted off the block, prodded like a prize cow, and she reluctantly shuffled along with the directions they tugged her in. She looked back at the slave, memorizing those brazen features. She squinted at the sign sloppily posted alongside, and memorized that too.

She had missed whom she was now owned by, not that it mattered. Morua had only sold her because he thought she would be harmless down in the city's self arranged prison system. A cage against which she would batter her mind, he no doubt thought. She was just a chit, a game piece that had stumbled across the idea of different movement patterns. He had no idea what she was capable of. She knew that, or else he would have had her killed.

She did not smile as she wanted to, instead curling her shoulders and allowing her head to droop in resignation. Her new owner would doubtless understand the significance of Solana's better traits, and would look for any spark of rebellion or taciturn attitude. Solana did not desire to cause the sort of trouble that could be traced back to her. No good ever came out of being noticed for the wrong sort of thing, and that was definitely wrong.

It galled her that she had not caught the looks of her new owner, for she was unable to lay any sort of plans until she knew the ground upon which her rebellion would be staged from. She looked furtively about, trying not to wrinkle her nose when she was tied to a post of her own, almost a mirror of the whore's own predicament, only with less sex involved. If ever there was proof of man's habit of pointless endeavors, that would be one.

The post she had been tied to had a few other slaves tied to it with less care than Solana had seen horses tied off. She was standing in a churned up wet dirt, herself, its makeup being only a few splashes away from being mud. It had not rained recently, then, though she supposed there were other sorts of rain, of less clean character. For a moment she was absorbed by the prospect of what she was standing in, in bare feet, until the gut wrenching hunger pangs kicked her in the side of her gut, and she leaned forward against the post dizzily.

She looked back towards the girl and the sexed up promise of Jamil's Tavern, though that line of sight was blocked by more human bodies looking to buy flesh; though for food, entertainment or work Solana didn't care to speculate on.

She didn't look back when she was lead away to the place she would sleep at, focusing only on stumbling forward and taking mental notes of her new peers and the misery of hunger.

She would meet this girl of Jamil's Tavern, eventually. She would see to it.

It was rare for anyone to hold Stella's gaze for so long that there was some sort of weird connection between them. Most people found the woman to be unnerving, and generally dropped her stare early on, especially those with weak minds or a lot of insecurities. The slave, interestingly, didn't do this. Even after she had been shuffled away and Stella returned to her advertising, the slave looked back at her. An icy glare was given until the slave had disappeared from her vision, to be tied to some other post across the square.

With that distraction out of the way, which Stella thought little of, she was able to continue her sales while the Supervisor watched her closely to make sure she didn't find some way to switch her hands around and choke someone to death. The heat often dizzied her, and the smell from the square was almost unbearable; there was an overwhelming, putrid scent of piss, sweat, and shit coming from a combination of dirty animals, even dirtier slaves, and her own foul skin. Sexual slavery had never been a wonderful business, but here it was the worst. For a long time, Stella did not believe her treatment could get any worse, but the werewolves had proven her wrong.

It was better to be under the rule of the Supervisor, and the Supervisor's boss, than it was to be with those foul creatures of two worlds.

Stella did not complain when she and the others were tied together and leashed with rope like common goats, led away to their familiar working and sleeping quarters. By the time she had left, the slave's unworthy stare was far from her mind. Instead she had focused on the prospect of real work tomorrow night.

Jamil's tavern was less a tavern and more a shabby, grubby building that sold sex everywhere and happened to also serve alcohol. It was a booming business for sexual slavery, with over thirty different sorts of whores, most of which were far too young to be all that acceptable. The age ranged from as young as eight to no older than thirty, save for a few nonhuman exceptions who were older but did not appear so. Stella was still new and quite unpopular in her sleeping quarters, which housed ten women in a room the size of a king-sized bed. The walls had once been white, but time had reduced their color to a grimy, foul shade of grey. The ceiling leaked when rain came, and there were two women to every bunk. It was not a comfortable existence.

Sleep was always filled with dark, disturbing dreams that made her awaken in the middle of the night with screams. The walls were so thin that often sounds of pleasure, torture, and foulness of all sorts could be heard sounding throughout the dark building.

Breakfast was stale bread and questionable milk from a cow. Stella did well to ignore the taunts from the other women; the rope that had bound her hands had rubbed the skin so raw that it had bled the day before, leaving behind an ugly wound. This was, apparently, a reason to make fun of her. She kept her temper under a strange amount of control.

She had no friends here. She did not require friendships. This was her rock bottom. She would not rise from this place; and it was only a matter of time before her long solitude and darkening mind would drive her to her end. Meanwhile, she dragged her clients behind curtains and earned her "right" to stay, but not without abusing them and bruising them to release her deep-seated hatred for the world. Somehow, they always came back, as if such violence during sex was enjoyable to them. The disgusting, disturbing world of sexual slavery was a familiar one to Stella. She had stopped looking for a way out.

She had abandoned hope.

Once they had gotten to their destination, the slaves were split into lots. Those for physical labor -- the majority of the thirteen bought at auction -- were lead away to presumably worse quarters than what Solana had already seen. Unskilled laborers were cheap, so it was pointless to spend too much money on them. Solana pitied them in a distracted sort of manner, but they were only chattel to Solana and not worthy of serious distraction.

Especially when her stomach kept demanding food, and she, gallingly, could not fix the issue.

The remaining four slaves, Solana included, were house slaves. Solana was quickly culled from their ranks, and bid to follow someone who was clearly of higher status: keeper of books, keys, or a house steward if Sola was any judge of things. She was, really, since she'd directed those loathesome irritants on numerous occasions, and could sniff out their inability to properly carry out their duties from farthings away. And this one, she thought with a rather dizzy disdain, was only mediocre.

He though, seemed to have the same opinion of Solana, for all he haughtily told her that insubordination on her part would lead to being whipped at his orders. Anger didn't need food, and she was very quickly angry at his presumption, but years of practice saw her tucking it in deep where he wouldn't be able to see it. Instead, she looked away from him meekly, and he disregarded her as a threat in the dismissive fashion of unsuspecting superiors everywhere. He explained in a pretentious voice about how the books had been mismanaged (though he didn't see fit to mention by whom), and since the opportunity to buy a learned slave had come up he had snatched the opportunity to utilize a slave rather than have to pay a learned scribe to take care of the matter. Since that extra money would be better served in your pockets. Solana continued for him, in silence.

She looked at him sharply, when he was not looking at her. He might very well attempt to blame Solana for any such money later proven to be missing from the books. She would do well to be cautious around the man.

He droned on and on about superfluous duties she would be expected to maintain at top quality, and was threatened with being thrown in with the laborers if her work was not up to par. Sola still did not know who her owner was, or even what the laborers were tasked with doing. It was unusual for a typical household to need to keep laborers, so it was likely she had been bought by a business owner of unknown quality. She didn't dare ask.

When she was not fixing the books and managing finances which she would not be able to efficiently take care of until the steward became bored with harassing her and, doubtless, fouling her ability to do her best, she would be assigned to the kitchens. Until she was able to prove herself, she would mostly be helping the kitchens. Solana did not need to be told that she would not get the chance to prove herself until the steward deigned give her the time to; he wanted her to know just how low in the pecking order she was. He too would have realized where she was from, and would wish to assure himself that she would not give any trouble before spending time with her.

Kitchens would be in charge of fetching food supplies from the market. This was perfect for Solana, though she realized she'd have to work at a carefully productive rate to assure herself that privelage. Too eager to please and they'd figure her working towards escape; too reticent and she'd be lumped in with the troublemakers and become the slave all the other slaves had the tacit permission of their betters to kick around.

First, fear. They would expect her to either cower or lash out, and the former would be more easily received then the latter. Some owners might appreciate a feisty slave, but only an idiot would purposefully take that route. It was a fool's chance that they would land a slave owner who liked that sort of thing: most slave owners cared foremost about productivity. Solana had been shoulder deep in the real world since a young age and didn't carry on with the titillating gossip and bardstales of lascivious or stout-hearted taskmasters just waiting for that one peon with heart or spirit. Tripe.

The steward was staring at her, and she realized with a small burst of shock that she'd been daydreaming. She let herself freeze up, and quickly dropped her eyes to the floor, drawing her shoulders in and shrinking backwards while stammering apologies. Horse droppings, she would leave a bad impression. If there was one thing ink-stained bookkeepers hated, it was inattentiveness. And most stewards had highly inflated opinions of themselves, clearly separated from their peons. He would be looking for the smallest hints of inability from her, and she'd as much dropped it in his lap.

A tongue lashing later she found herself locked into a small cell shared with two other female slaves already sleeping. Solana had missed dinner while closeted with the insufferable steward, and being a new slave she hadn't been permitted to raid the remaining kitchen scraps, which had probably gone to her now immediate betters -- well-liked slaves. The two were either asleep or pretending sleep, not that it mattered to Solana. She was too exhausted to pay even half attention to the constant clamoring of her stomach, and dropped down where a blanket covered scattering of straw had been left for her. She could see one of the slaves had appropriated a second blanket, likely the one she was supposed to sleep under. She was too tired and hungry to make a fuss, or even truly care. She went to sleep.

Eyes the color of cold, new ice locked on the dark brown, deer-like stare of Sylvia Redford. Lips like crimson velvet lifted in a soft, warm smile that made her cheeks feel hot and her heart feel full. She had a voice like rich, dark chocolate, smooth and decadent, sexy in tone and manner. Stella reached out to touch her form, watching her lover, who was draped in a strange sort of filtered appearance so that her features were dream-like, as if coated in fog. Her cold, ethnic fingers traced along Sylvia's neck. Dark lashes fell slowly, then rose slower still, like some vague curtain over the windows to the soul. Sylvia wetted her lips seductively, watching Stella with a suggestive grin taunting her lover to continue.

"I am a dream," said Sylvia.
"No," answered Stella. She placed a black, gloved hand on Sylvia's naked backside and pulled her close to kiss her.

She stared ahead of her. Her blurred vision cleared all-too-quickly and she found herself staring at a young girl with vomit dribbling down her lip. The girl snored. Stella blinked.

Rubbing her eyes with her hand to clear them of mucus and other nasties, she sat up abruptly. The speed of her movement brought on a dizzy spell and she wavered for a moment. The air was thick with humidity and moisture, so to make the entire tiny room smell heavily of sweat. She rubbed her forehead and then rubbed her hand on her undergarments (which all of the women slept in) to clean it. The windowless room did not allow her to know the time, but she guessed it was still before dawn, for the air did not smell of old sugar, bad coffee, bread, eggs, or any other sort of food. There was only the acrid smell of dirty genitals and skin.

The door to the sleeping quarters had been left unlocked, for once. Stella rose (or rather rolled out of her bunk) to her feet. The floor was dirty. Her bare feet protested this; she had come to expect it. She found her way out of the quarters into the hallway and peeked around the corner; dawn was hinting at the horizon from what she could see in the window. The street was lit with an eerie blue that suggested the sun had yet to rise but night was over. She listened for the sound of footsteps or breathing, but it did not appear that anyone had risen yet.

As quietly as she could, she tiptoed to the kitchen, watching and nervously jumping at any sign of another person. She moved behind the swinging doorway and carefully set the door back in its place so it wouldn't squeak. Her feet found strategic places on the floorboards so they would not creak. Every time they did, she winced. Her hands found their way into the cupboard where she knew smoked meats had been hidden behind several safeguards; she had watched one night while one of the Supervisors had found this stash. She moved one, two wooden boards, then felt for her prize.

She was rewarded for her efforts with several pieces of seasoned horse jerkey, which she barely chewed and swallowed immediately. Her eyes glazed with satisfaction.

Kerilla was a strange mix of rottweiler, bulldog, and some small terrier that gave her a horrendous underbite, teeth too large for her fleshy mouth, and stocky limbs that forced her to waddle instead of walk. She was covered in black fur, with highlights around her eyes, chin, belly, paws, and chest with a rich color of red-brown. Her bark was booming. Her jaws were mean. Her stomach was full of rat carcasses and who knew what else. She was Christophe Jamil's dog, and spent the night in the high-class room beside the kitchen. The door leading to this room had been mistakenly left ajar, and Kerilla had gotten into the garbage bin there and gorged herself until she could no longer move.

All Stella recognized was a door flying open before Kerilla was barking so loudly and so viciously that the whore had bolted and climbed onto a countertop. She looked for a place to hide, but the dog was between her and any safety. Kerilla was too short to jump onto the counter, but large enough to bring a person down and kill them with a bite to the throat. Stella knew that the dog was capable. She grabbed the nearest sharp object, a kitchen knife, and threw it at the dog. The canine dodged. Stella threw everything within her reach, hitting the dog with moldy bread, a mortar without its pestle, and a fork.

Kerilla persisted.

Her body ramped up with energy from food and fear, Stella leaped off of the counter top in a desperate attempt at escaping the dog and ran into the living room, used only by Christophe's finest and Christophe himself. The dog flew after her, drool slipping from her horrible tongue and lips.

Stella didn't look behind her, running through various hallways she had never seen before until she felt the dog snap at her heel and squealed, looking back and running into the hulking shape and figure of a man, who caught her arms with his hands firmly and whistled sharply.
Kerilla stopped. She sat, panting.

Stella turned to stare at the man and immediately dropped her gaze; even she knew better than to stare into the cold grey eyes of Christophe Jamil. She did not speak. She did not breathe. She had seen only the back of his head before, and heard only rumor of his physical and mental nature. His large hands gripped her tighter, so that it hurt. She did not wince or attempt to move away.

He clicked his tongue strangely and Kerilla whined. The dog begrudgingly left them in the hallway and returned to the living room.
No sooner had she moved away that Stella felt her entire body slam hard against the nearest wall. Her face was pressed against the grey surface by his pale hand. He felt her throat and teased it oddly with his fingers. She gagged. He did it again and she choked. He pushed her against the wall harder and then pulled her by the hair when she vomited, forcing her to empty the contents of her stomach onto the floor. She spit. He growled. He kicked her shin and then tripped her with a second kick, and she fell into her own foulness and moaned pitifully.

He kicked her in the side while she was down and then stepped over her. She saw nothing except his black boots against the wood floor before her vision and consciousness failed.

---

Two weeks later and she had somehow earned the respect of those in her sleeping quarters for the encounter. She never spoke. She refused to speak unless with clients. The Supervisors assumed that Mr. Jamil had broken her, for she had not attempted to disobey the law of the house again. She did not question authority. She was no longer bound by rope or chain. She did not act out.

That night she was serving several drinks to several different men, all older, all unattractive. She put on a smile as well as before. Her company was good.

Christophe assumed, wrongly, that he had fixed her.

Exhaustion and hunger had marked the passage of time, as Solana was whittled down to a stone-like, bony exterior. With her flesh that had seemingly melted, so too did what remain seem more intense and oppressive. Already she had gained some favor from the slavemaster, no small feat, though her fellows were caught between despising her and fearing her in the admirable way of lesser beings everywhere. She knew this, she watched it happen. She made it happen, because life would not bend any other way. Luck and good fortune were for the weak and the easily lead astray. Solana was neither. She made her path, and she walked it, and any who got in her way would be kicked aside like pebbles and small defenseless animals. She wasn't particularly fond of either.

The manor she had come to be acquainted with in a way she'd never seen a building before. As a Lady of Morua she'd known of servants quarters, passageways, and the odd gaps and chambers that were useful for spies and discreet shortcuts, but her experience with them had been limited to directing others through them. She found it a fascinating, if irritating, way to move through a place. It churned up ideas in the hind parts of her mind, deep and dark forms that swarmed over any docility that might have taken hold.

Especially given the varied richness of her master's holdings. Though they were not in the part of the city where the most elaborate, sprawling compounds existed, Solana knew an estate when she saw one. She knew that she had probably not been bought by the man who actually owned her, but a middle man loyal to him. This place then was likely a secondary residence typically filled with slaves of servants of loyal men and minor nobility. It galled her a little to be so distant from the real power, but it also gave her more breathing room; no doubt these would feel puffed up to be so important to have slaves at their every beck and call. Though she still didn't know what the place was for, or why physical laborers were needed. Her need for the information was yet minor, though; as long as it did not interfere with her purpose she did not need to dig deeply on the matter.

But, it was hard to gain understanding of the place at all. It was hot, dry, suffocating. The typical dress was inflammatory in its scanty totality, but the weather scarcely afforded any other option. The home in which she served was sprawling and flat, without a second story. Its floors were tiled, with no rugs to grace them. Graceful urns and woven mats of painted reeds graced floor and wall respectively, with no other purpose than to please the eye. There was a garden attached to the main house, used mainly for lounging in the evening. The head of the household would often take his favorites to the roof to idle away time on the rather rare wooden furniture. And the hearth was only used for cooking.

The people were odder still. She was not as pallid as some northern territories, but even so she was shockingly pale compared to the natives. Their skins were richly dark, polished by the sun to a deep glow. Their idea of jewelry was ostentatious and wild, and it seemed they took an offending like for bright dyes and bizarre patterns. Some of the wealthier individuals were hard to look upon.

But at least she could now see them. It caused her great smugness when she was told to assist Hamah, the cook's assistant and terror of the kitchen, to the market; though it would not necessarily mean she would have a chance to go to Jamil's Tavern. She'd have to create that opportunity herself.

She followed Hamah out the servants' door, keeping a half pace behind the shorter woman. Solana still did not know the layout of the city. It was large, she knew, being one of the bigger trade hubs in the area. But, as far as its breakdown, she didn't know if the gentlemanly entertainment was kept out of sight or allowed to blossom where it would. Morua had always held strict moral views on that sort of thing; it was unsightly to keep it in view of ladies or children. This though, with its slavery, was quite possibly much less rigid in those views. What a disgusting group of people who lived in Semerkhet.

She carried the majority of Hamah's picks of fruit and meats, most of it imported from surrounding areas -- some even from Corezo, Solana noted with a brief pang -- and was quite shocked to see that the neatly arrayed selection of fish butted up against a street that was promising, indeed.

"What's that?" She asked Hamah, pointing at the general area.

The older slave followed the finger, and snorted. "Women, wine, song, dance. Why?"

Solana slid her eyes away, meekly. "Wouldn't the Master prefer entertainment with supper?"

Hamah snorted again, and Solana wisely didn't follow up its dismissal with more words. The Master's choice of entertainment was not the concern of the kitchens, though the matter might be brought up in the hearing of someone who would be able to curry favor by arranging such a thing. That was not likely to happen in Solana's presence, but what was likely was a daily excursion with a member of the kitchen staff to buy the day's foods.

So she stood in the bright morning light, hot and sweaty, burdened with baskets and trying to sneak surreptitious glances at the promising street.

"What did he look like?"
"I bet he vas faht and tehrrible and ugly."
"Zhe won' talk. Feck her."
The different accents illustrated well the fact that most of the slaves were from very different places. This area was a base of operations of sorts, when it came to slavery. There were skin types of every color, including colors that looked particularly unnatural (Bali was a blue elf-type). Stella's tan skin and light blue eyes might have appeared different or strange in some settings, but in this area, she was far from the weirdest-looking girl. Stella was busying herself with cleaning her skin with some sort of liquid that smelled terrible; it was supposed to kill disease. She flicked her eyes up briefly at Bali, who had been quiet during this time, and caught a vague, dark stare.

"Stehlla, plees' tellus," pleaded a young girl, no older than fourteen, with strawberry blond hair. She had dirt across her cheek and sweat on her brow. Stella looked at the girl dangerously, narrowing her eyes, licking her dry lips, and then returned to scrubbing her skin. She wasn't in the mood for their bullshit today. She was having trouble not snapping. It was in her nature to be quiet unless necessary, but she did not like tolerating their hounding questions. She knew they were only curious. Christophe Jamil was a legend in the brothel, not only because he was the owner but because the only thing any of the girls ever saw of him was the brutality evidence on other girls. Stella had been one of the rare few to see his face, even for that brief instant she had.

"Alone, her. Tired," piped Bali. She had poor Eyropan, always had, having learned it after being captured and coming here. She rarely spoke. It wasn't clear whether she was referring to herself as tired, or Stella. But clearly she didn't want to have any of it right now. She scratched her head with a dirty nail. The other girls wisely fell quiet.

Stella looked again at Bali, but the strange elf had closed her eyes and folded her hands in her lap.
She wasn't done for the day, by any means.
Much to the dismay of the other girls, Stella left the room five minutes later, back on her heeled shoes and ready to comfort some other man who needed her.

---

Meanwhile, two girls were returning to Jamil's Tavern, sent on an errand to the marketplace to buy food for the Supervisors. One woman was older, almost past the age where being a whore would earn the business any money at all, and experienced. She was tall, but bulky for a woman. She carried with her the weight of decades of abuse and survival, with hair the color of creamed coffee and skin that had lost its youthful smoothness. Beside her walked a thin girl, still in her mid teens, shaky and nervous from lack of exposure to the outside world. She was dark-skinned with very short black hair, clearly from the South. Her ears were gaged with circles made of some white stone, a symbol of the tribe she had once been part of.

The two women were scantily clothed in garb that easily advertised their business. The older woman had a tight bodice that accentuated her breasts and exposed a dangerous amount of cleavage, while the young girl wore an outfit that advertised almost every body part. It was hardly larger than a bikini, with leather strings that wrapped around her thighs and just above her breasts, which were covered by pieces of some type of animal skin. Though it appeared to the untrained eye a bit tribal, it was an outfit merely designed to look that way while catching the attention of men who didn't know any better.

They swept passed two slaves without hesitation, carrying baskets down the little road that lead to Jamil's Tavern.

Maybe it was the lack of food. Maybe it was the heat. Maybe it was the strangeness of the land around her, and the unfamiliarity of the task she must pull to achieve her goals.

She swung wide to watch the path of the two outrageously garbed women, whose steps took them one by one towards the district of wine, women and song. She watched them almost desperately, feeling as she did so that she was losing something to time, that this was a chance the Changers had seen fit to cast upon her, and if she let it slip. . .it was slipping away. The basket jounced against her hip as she collided with someone, who shoved her away in a burst of anger, but she was craning to get a look at the nearly naked backsides of the two women.

"You! Hey! You two!" She called, feeling her heart speed in her chest. She could almost feel Hamah turning behind her in slow motion, a question on her lips and her brows furrowed, causing the well worn lines of irritation to deepen and form canyons in her unpleasant face.

Solana reached out to the women, slaves like her, but infinitely apart. She cast her hand towards them, with no more plan than the idea that she needed to form some sort of communication with the women of the pleasure district, who might know something of Jamil's Tavern. And she must do it without making Hamah suspicious.

Lyla was the name of the bulkier woman, a name not matching her overall appearance. Her large basket was full of food, mostly meats that had been bought from the marketplace. She was a woman experienced enough and with enough freedom to bear strong ties with her living situation. She was a respected whore, a woman who had survived against all odds and whose story of darkness and violence had long been lost to the tides of change. Like Stella, she now had no other place for society. Unlike Stella, she had made the best of her situation and was blessed with freedoms that normal women did not receive, like going to the market unsupervised. Because of her nature, she had almost earned the place of a Supervisor.

She was not used to being addressed by a common slave. The dark-skinned girl beside her tugged at her sleeve, damp with sweat.
"Ngoja kidogo!" said the girl.
The woman swung her palm against the girl's cheek. The girl made a sound and struggled to stay upright, wavering mid-step and holding her basket tightly to her barely-concealed chest.
"Eyropan. Always Eyropan," said Lyla, and faced the slave who had caused her little foreign whore to misbehave.

"You needing somefing, girl?" asked Lyla, putting her hand on her hip as she jutted one large hip to the side, eying the ugly little slave up and down while her dark-skinned charge whimpered behind her.

The woman's demeanor caused Solana to draw up short. Almost too late, she forced her eyes down, and felt bile rise at the subservient movement. Whores had been beneath her her whole life. They were worms, dirt, waste to be cast into the streets. They were disgusting, a symptom of a system based upon weakness and giving in to that weakness; nothing more than tokens of power and a professed need. It had never been worth her wit to so much as attempt to touch that wicked trade, but she could not forget her status was lower.

Somehow, in the small manor with its mysterious purposes, she'd almost forgotten what a slave was. There, it was a charade. She could sneer behind the backs of her superiors, for they were not unlike the ones she'd had to stomach her whole life. But a whore -- she'd taken a risk to speak so boldly and familiarly to a whore. She'd been so desperate, so unlike herself that she had potentially set something into motion that could set her back another moonspan. She would not bear that.

So she tucked her head low in a nod of acknowledgement of the higher status of the woman, feeling her stomach curdle in revulsion of the movement, and tried her best to remain sounding weak and timid instead of the thick disgust she'd love to unleash into the women.

"Beg pardon mum, my master might have need of entertainment with dinner. Would your patron allow, mayhaps, one of your girls to come to his manor if the idea is favorable?"

Hamah hadn't spotted her altercation yet, but it was only a matter of time. She could almost feel herself sweating harder, but kept her expression clamped in iron made from fear and neutrality.

Mum. Who by the Changer's Fires calls a whore 'mum'?

Lyla had always been fairly disgusted by labor slaves. They were dirty, smelly, and disposable pieces of human (or otherwise) garbage that were only useful for one thing: work. Granted, sex slavery was all around her every day. The native girl beside her was certainly not here by will, and many of the girls had come fresh from some other place that Lyla didn't bother asking about. They too were slaves, but it was a different purpose and therefore a different breed. Whores had far more respect, which they had earned through sheer thick skin and willpower. Such was the way it had been for centuries.

She felt like spitting on this little slave, a twig in comparison to her bulk. She could kill her by sitting on her, by the Changers.

Her question caught the woman's curiosity, and she raised her brows, picking at her chin in contemplation. Master Jamil was an impatient man, and a man who had never been seen by the likes of her, despite her place in the hierarchy. Perhaps there were a few disposables who the Master would be willing to part with for the night.

Lyla took her hand from her chin and suddenly grabbed the stick-like, dark whore beside her by the wrist. The girl winced, but did not make an audible sound. "I am not eh, knowing if the Master would be allowing this'n," she said, mostly aloud to herself. She released the girl forcefully, who made a small whine and rubbed her wrist.

"Maybe I am thinking one of tamed the. Do your master haff prefer-ans in girl?"

Theogios preserve, the girl was half stupid. Her accent was revolting in the way of commoners, and her charade went to iron as she fought to preserve its integrity. Time had not prepared her for such an act as this one; she found herself struggling to take in her role completely, without being beaten for insubordination. She struggled, and kept her eyes downcast, forcing herself to think of the girl at the slave auction. Hands tied, wild eyed -- not a girl Solana would think a man would be interested in. No, most men preferred biddable girls who talked sweet and flirted with the most idiotic expressions.

"A wild one. He likes some heat in 'em." She said, letting her voice drift with the blankness of a slave who has learned to not care.

It was a half shot in the dark. She had no idea how many potentially dangerous girls this Jamil's Tavern kept, nor if the girl had since been hauled off and disposed of in the night. Men were conquerers at heart. That which was not conquerable was thrown away, in the end, unless you knew to hide it. Solana was not sure the girl knew how to hide it.