Captivity

[Lucien]

((Closed))

"They don't shut up. Those birds, they just don't shut up..."

The boy was delirious, all he could focus on were the cries of nearby birds. Their sharp voices sent echoes into his young skull, worsening the powerful headache that gripped him. The right side of his face was swollen by a dark bruise, causing him considerable pain with each bump in the road. The boy wasn't in good shape at all. He looked a sickly pale despite the abundant sunlight around. His green eyes had lost their former luster as he watched the world pass by through wooden bars. There wasn't much to watch anyways. For miles around there was only grass and dirt, flat for as far as his eyes could see. There was no wind, no cool refreshing breeze to sharpen the senses. The heat was getting to him, the arid heat that only furthered his thirst. Each swallow of precious saliva that took so long to gather was a chore, the tight black collar around his neck made sure of it.

Lucien didn't feel like himself anymore. Ever since he had left that twisted world of his mind's creation things had gone downhill. His spirit guide, Orifiel, had vanished without explanation. The exit tunnel had taken the lad to those plains, endless rolling plains. Without his guide he felt lost, lonely, and even angry. It didn't take long for the slavers time find him. Within minutes of his arrival they pounced. They moved in quickly, armed with wooden swords and clubs they surrounded the boy easily. Unable to think clearly, Lucien panicked. Running on instinct alone his movements were predictable. He didn't put up a struggle after the first blow.

They joked at how easy he was to take, how much he cried after only a hit to the face, but he'd never been one to tolerate pain. The lad crawled into the moving cage himself, fearful of any further punishment. He would've put the collar on himself had they not done it so quickly. The slavers continued onward with their prize without another word.

The smell was getting to him. Not just of the beasts that pulled the wagon, or the unwashed hides that served as a makeshift ceiling, but his own smell. Dried sweat, a little blood, his unwashed body became its own tormentor. Lucien had gone without baths on Althanas before, but this smell was retched. It was as if hopelessness became an aroma.

Above, birds cried out against the midday sun.

[Rheawien]

“Bugger this grunt work. I swear, my prowess is wasted on this menial task.”

If somebody other then Rheawien looked through her eyes at that particular moment, that somebody certainly wouldn’t call the task at hand menial. The white-haired woman was soaring through the sky, a phoenix trapped between her thighs, flapping its majestic wings in a rhythmic manner. The mythical bird seemed afire, its feathers the color of steel at melting point, and it flew high enough to make the road below look like a piece of string caught on a spotty tawny-green piece of canvas. With the sky’s azure hue pale from the relentless sun that stood directly above them, the beast and the beauty were practically invisible. Of course, that same sun did no favors to Rhea’s pale skin, threatening to singe it until it was bronze if she kept it exposed for too long. Combined with the ridiculous mission she was given, it was more then enough to make Rheawien seriously agitated.

Apparently, there were some slavers in the vicinity. The vagabond bitch came upon this unremarkable realm during one of her wanderings, her feet (and her phoenix) taking her in this random direction her mind opted for. It was not much different from Corone, and as such it had similar woes as the arguably greatest realm on Althanas. The most notable one were the slavers, the traders of the living that snatched free folk and threw them in irons only to sell them to the highest bidder as if they were nothing but animals. And that was the type of slavery that Rheawien didn’t like. Some bondage she could handle, harsh language as well, even a certain dose of physical punishment, but all as catalysts for a more explosive sexual experience. But when people were forced to do that and a whole lot more against their will... Well, there was only so much even a twisted mind such as hers could bear to watch.

Of course, when she agreed to help the local folk in their plight, the brassy woman expected them to rally around her so she could lead them against this plague that tormented their land. Instead, the people decided to show their true side; the craven one. They gave her information of one of the shipments, telling her that the carriage would eventually lead her to the headquarters, but she followed it for two full days now and the only thing she came close to was getting roasted by the sun. The slavers moved at what seemed the speed of a crawl, trucking down the road with only a handful of slaves and open nonchalance that irritated her. Rheawien had to stifle the urge to plummet down from the sky and kill them all during these two days, but today, when she noticed a sunburned reddish hue on her bare shoulders, she decided to put and end to this turtle-speed chase. She’d try to beat the location of home base out of the slavers, and if that didn’t work... Well, at least she saved some weak folk from the pickle they got themselves into.

“Come on, Yves. Let’s put an end to this.” she sent the telepathic message to her mount and the phoenix obeyed, drawing its wings back and starting the gradual descent. At first Rhea could handle the celerity of the descend without much strain, but the gravity kept pulling and Yves kept her wings back, gaining speed at an insane rate. At the end of the bullet-fast descent the half-elf vixen thought they would crash for certain, but about a hundred paces before the seemingly inevitable crash, the phoenix spread her wings and turned the straightforward trajectory into a curve that took them directly above the small convoy. Rheawien didn’t lose time on sightseeing. Before the first scream from the rear guard came, two glaives were rifled from her hands, the pair of spinning projectiles slithering though air and necks alike, decapitating two mounted slavers at the back of the line. Controlled by the bitch’s telekinesis, the two exotic missiles would’ve probably proceeded to slice their way down the column of riders if one of them – a leader figure at the front of the line – didn’t turn in his saddle just enough to spot the oncoming phoenix rider and launch his spear. Even with her uncanny speed, there was little chance for Rhea to evade the throw, but luckily for her, Yves pulled up at the last moment, taking the spear in her underbelly.

The fiery beast and her feminine rider crash-landed with the sound of crackled bones followed by the roaring of the flames that detonated around the broken firebird. Luckily for Rheawien, the crash sent her tumbling down the road uncontrollably. Unluckily for her, in the process of rolling through the dirt she bumped her head (more then once) and when the slavers found her scantly clad body, the half-elf was sprawled on the middle of the road, unconscious and fortunate that she hadn’t impaled herself on one of her swords.

[Lucien]

The dull hum of June bugs and indelicate wagon ride harshly rocked Lucien to sleep. The boy found some small measure of peace in slumber, untouched by his haggard outward appearance. Trials always seemed to find him ever since he had left Earth. Lucien often joked he was a magnet for misfortune, a negative void of luck. Soon it seemed his joke wasn't far from the truth. The screams didn't wake him, he was too exhausted for that. But the feeling of warm liquid splattering against his face jarred him from his dreams. As the boy opened his eyes he believed some of the other captives had spit on him, a nerd from Earth assumes as much. As the two headless riders fell of their mounts, he wished that was the case.

Soundless screams vibrated in his throat, terror gripping his entire body. Thoughts raced through his mind unhampered by any rationality. As the last wagon cage the youth could only imagine the slavers were under attack, but by who and what were still a mystery. He didn't have the clarity of mind to hear the abrupt crash as his would-be savior slammed into the ground. He caught only a fleeting glimpse of the sight, a mangled bird retching in fiery pain. It left in evanescence.

Within moments his captors dragged a lithe form into rickety wagon. She seemed stripped of all but the most immodest clothing as the slavers tossed the girl unceremoniously inside. Lucien could only stare at them in nervous curiosity before they shot him a glare and slammed the heavy wooden door behind them. The lad heard whispers of, "We should've just killed her," as his captors walked back up the road to their steeds. The wagon train began moving again once the bodies of their fallen comrades had been stripped of valuables.

The boy eyed his new cell mate with a strange sense of wonder. The girl had a gentle beauty while asleep, her body cradled by the hard wood around them. It took a few minutes, but the lad finally overcame his shyness. He crawled over to her, careful not to let his movements shake her from unconsciousness too early. "Hey," he whispered. There was only dead silence. "Hey, um..you." This time Lucien tried to be louder, but his voice still felt soft. He moved closer, all the while glancing her body over to see is she was still breathing. Soon the youth kneeled right above her.

[Rheawien]

Rheawien’s consciousness returned gradually. The first flash of the real world – after her unfortunate collision with the road – was a pair of sneers on the faces whose owners dragged her by her arms. She remembered wanting to make those ugly mugs even uglier. Then she remembered the pain that exploded in her ribs as one of the slavers kicked her furiously. She remembered promising herself to return the favor tenfold. She also remembered the cage she was flung into and how her enervation begged her to take a nap. She remembered not being given a choice whether she wanted to do so or not. The final sensation she noticed was somebody calling her. Perhaps in the real world the voice was hushed, but her drowsiness distorted it, making it substantially more loud and ominous. But she didn’t react to it immediately. Chances were it was one of the slavers and if she played it smart, she could snap his neck or take him captive. So she waited, her eyes closed, her body tranquil, waited like a predator ready to pounce. Once the voice was reiterated the call and something brushed against her arm, she did just that.

Hey eyes wanted to shoot open, but due to the vibrant sunlight, the best they could manage was a frowned squint. It was just enough for her to acknowledge a human figure of a slaver that towered over her, preparing himself to take advantage of her more likely then not. With what sounded like a growl her hand shot upwards, grabbing the man by the neck and squeezing with as much might as her muscles currently had. Unfortunately, at the moment that wasn’t much, so she had to use both hands to wrestle the bastard and ultimately pin him to the floor beneath her. The face below her tried to say something that sounded like a pitiful plea, but there was no mercy to be seen on Rheawien’s face.

That is, until the clarity of her vision returned. The haze that obscured her vision cleared up like the morning mist in front of the north wind, presenting her with a face far too gentle and malformed to belong to one of the slavers. In fact, with his swollen visage and soiled clothes, the lad looked very much like the very people she attempted to save with her deadly descent. The realization sent an immediate impulse to her arms, making them loose their clutch on the boy’s windpipe and move from it entirely.

“Hey, hey, break it up, bitch!” one of the slavers on the other side of the bars shouted, using his wooden sword to stab at her side and push her away. Rhea evaded the harmless attack by dismounting from the youth and backing away from him. “If you want a real man, there’s one right here.” He gestured to his crotch with a wry grin.

“There is?” she retorted, plopping in the corner with a jaded sigh. “I sure as hell can’t see one.”

“Oh, you’ve got a big mouth on ya. I’ll find use for it before this trip ends, you can count on it.” the obnoxious man spoke from his place in the saddle as his mount walked away from the cage. Rheawien wasted another scowl on the man before she turned to the lad she nearly choked to death. Her face softened ever so slightly, her lips shifting to a rather indifferent expression while her frown stood its ground on her brow.

“You alright, kid?” she asked, her forearms resting on her knees, her hands hanging loosely. “You shouldn’t go creeping on unconscious people like that. They might think you’re trying to take advantage of them. You weren’t doing that, were you?” she concluded with an inquisitive raise of her brow.

Somehow she doubted that he did. The boy looked miserable, all bruised up and grimy, with blood caking his face. In his current state he looked unable to nail a hooker that offered a handout. He also wore a rusty collar around his neck. Rhea wondered why they haven’t slapped one on her, but then she remembered that she was still wearing the scarlet leather one that her Mistress Sarah gave her. The tugged on it, a gesture merely to check if it was still there, before she pushed the stray alabaster hair threads from her sweaty forehead.

“I’m Rheawien,” the brassy woman added. “And I’m your rescuer.”

[Lucien]

Lucien had no time to cry out as a hand shot up and grabbed his throat. Though he tried with all his strength, the woman still managed to pin him to the ground. His eyes grew wide with terror, glimmering in the sunlight like seawater. As the boy mustered what little strength he could to beg, the hand suddenly released its icy grip. His attacker backed down, sliding to her knees. The lad grasped the opportunity, scurrying away t the far side of the cage.

As the woman and a slaver passed crass insults, the twerp could only cling to his throat. He rubbed it softly, gingerly, any pressure on it felt horrible. The taste of metallic blood was in the back of the boy's mouth. He became so engrossed that he didn't even notice Rheawien's gaze or boastful introduction. Lucien took only a second to respond, his voice shaky and showing his age.

"My rescuer? Well what a fine fucking job you're doing," he squeaked. "What was the escape plan? Shove a dagger up my ass and slap my mother?" Lucien was still shaken. His breaths were heavy and rushed, full of a strange fascination with the woman across from him.

[Rheawien]

Rheawien almost felt like asking was the boy’s mother really around and would she be interested in slapping a subservient white-haired bitch from time to time, but the half-elf reckoned it would be a wasted jest at this time. Not only were the two completely unacquainted, but the blonde-haired teen seemed rather peeved at the time, which made the talk of mothers and dominatrix sex temporarily off limits. Rhea wasn’t surprised with his reaction though, especially not after the introductions she made by nearly snapping his neck. Still, she’d have none of that tone. Not from males, at least.

“I bet such courteous communication skills got you that face,” Rheawien said, sparing little bitterness in her tone as she inspected her own body. They stripped her of all her possessions, her swords, her glaives, her whip, taking even the dagger from her boot. Not that it mattered that much. With her telekinetic powers she could free herself and get her weapons back before any of these slaver nitwits could say damn that bitch! But there was no point in running headlong through a wall right now. The way the tactical part of her mind saw this entire situation, she was getting a free ride to the slavers headquarters. If she laid low, play the role of the subdued slave, they would lead her straight to the heart of their organization. The heart that she would rip apart soon enough.

She’d get no help from the boy, it seemed. Not only did he look completely defeated already, but he didn’t look like somebody who knew which end of a sword to put in his hand and which in his opponents. “This is the backup plan,” Rheawien explained, doing her best to get the dirt out of her tousled hair and off her pale skin. During this process she felt a rather sizeable lump somewhere above her right ear, and touching it made her face cringe, the pain eliciting a curse in the incomprehensible Dram language.

When she continued, her tone was hushed, the scantly attired woman doing her best to stifle the volume just enough for the slavers to remain oblivious to it. “I let them drive us to their base and then I kill them all,” she said, leaning a bit closer to the boy while she said so. Her smirk was cryptic, a cocky-bitter curl of her rosy lips that would’ve drive blood of many a man to certain extremities. It was unintentional though; she wanted nothing of this lad. He wasn’t the appropriate gender to attract her anyways.

“So just sit back and enjoy the ride, boy,” Rhea added, returning to her spot in the cage and diverting her eyes from her companion. On the other side of the wooden bars the world passed by slowly, a collage of greens and browns of the landscape and bright yellows of the sun that elevated the heat even further as it descended from the zenith. The azure was the color that attracted her gaze the most, probably because it reminded her of the coolness of the water for which she would kill right now.

[Lucien]

The squeaking wheels persisted, making an otherwise peaceful ride a pain. After the beatings from slavers and rabid dykes, quiet was the only pleasure Lucien could enjoy. The hard wooden bars he leaned against offered some comfort in sleep. Through heavy eyelids, he eyed Rheawen wearily. The white haired woman was powerful, despite her appearance. She had a crass way of speaking, forgoing feelings. As night fell around the pair in silence, the boy could only wonder who she really was and what she was doing there. People don't just go on rescue missions for the hell of it.

The humidity became a forgotten enjoyment as the moon rose in silver waves. The fast squeaks of the churning wheel began to slow until finally reaching a halt. The lad had been through it before; the slavers were making camp. The front wagons were usually the lucky few who got food, leaving rear carts in a symphony of whimpers. Water too was a hot item in short supply. The slavers drank their fill, indulging in the twisted faces of their victims as the gulped every drop.

"I hope they feed me tonight," thought Lucien. He couldn't stand it, the loss of power, of free will. His eyes were empty and filled with the wonder of a caged beast, staring at its captor in amazement.

Heavy footsteps were heard above the rustling of twigs and tinder used to start a fire. The punk cowered further into his splintered corner, the memory of the taste of blood returning to his throat. As the worn cage creaked open, three men stood with sinful grins on their faces. Unshaven and unkempt, they still managed to look full and bright even in the darkness that surrounded them. "Our boss wants to see you," snorted a rather portly one at the woman. He licked his teeth in a greasy smile, the sound of filth almost audible. A cold breeze ran through the wagon, causing Lucien's hair to stand on end. "We just want to know a few things is all." The slavers were prepared to beat submission into Rheawen if she refused, an obligation they were happy to fulfill.

[Rheawien]

“Oh goodie. They want to parley,” Rheawien thought as the crummy trio of slavers came to fetch her. She knew what these interrogations were usually all about. Some self-proclaimed leader of the convoy with an inflated ego would ask a question or three more out of formality before he and his chums pulled out their measly peckers. They would take turns throughout the night, disregarding the screaming and bleeding, responding to every protest with a slap at best or a proper beating that would tranquilize the victim into pliability at worst. The only thing different in this particular situation was that the bitch they were taking to their den wouldn’t be mounted. No, this one had teeth and was unafraid to bite.

“Your boss better have some elven wine. I’m thirsty,” Rhea harangued, walking out of the cage as if they were her entourage and not her captors. She was dusting off what little clothes she had on her curvaceous body when a lanky third of her escort backhanded her from behind.

“Keep your trap closed, whore,” the varlet with greasy long jet-black hair said, but when Rheawien wanted to turn around and face him, his rotund counterpart caught her shoulder and shoved it forward, ushering her towards the only tent in the campsite wordlessly. The broad-shouldered shirtless barbarian that completed the threesome eyed her with a grin, revealing both his intentions and poor dental hygiene.

“But I thought you boys wanted to talk. Or are lengthy conversations a bit too much for your bean-sized brains?” she instigated as they walked, her unctuous grin never ceasing to curve her lips. This time the bulky brute kicked her in the back, sending her flying beneath the flap of the tent and into the canvas tent. Rhea’s reflexes kicked in, balling up her body as it made a somersault before regaining stability once again. The insides of the temporary habitat were as unremarkable as the outsides, the cloth walls retaining the lifeless dark green color, making the wobbly table and the messy cot look even rattier, if such a thing was even possible. The person sitting behind the table with a mug in one hand and dagger with an impaled apple in the other had the same face of which she caught a glimpse of a fraction of a second before her phoenix came crashing down. The leader of the sorry outfit would’ve been a handsome man, if not for the fact that Rheawien preferred women over men and a nasty scar that robbed him of his right eye. Unlike the majority of his men, there was a soldier-like air around the man, polluted by the company, the vocation and the current environment. The tawny leather of his armor moaned as he repositioned himself and straightened his back minutely in response to Rhea’s entry.

“Boy, you’re just asking for it. All that lip is bound to give you quite a headache by the end of our trip,” the man said, discarding the mug on the rugged surface of the table. The cocky woman was unfazed, picking out a dry straw of grass from her hair before placing her hands on her shapely hips. The three nitwits from before entered, two taking their place by the door and the huge barbarian whose boot sole left an imprint on Rhea’s back taking what seemed like his regular spot behind the seated leader. “Now, we can do this courteously or we can do it courteously with an addition of blood and tears. Let’s try the first. My name is Dhorian and I’m the leader of the Inevitables. So who are you and who sent you?”

“I thought it was obvious,” Rheawien snapped back the retort almost instantly. She’s been mulling on the response for much of her captivity and she figured she came up with a smarmy one. “I’m an angel from the heavens, sent by the gods to punish you evildoers. Or did you miss my descent from above?”

“I see you prefer the second,” Dhorian said, taking a bite of the green apple.

“Like it matters. You’re going to have your way with me one way or the other. Or at least you’ll try.” There was enough of an accent on her last word to make it sound like a challenge. The two behind her back were restless and the muscled boor brought on his witless grin again.

“My, my, aren’t we feisty? Isn’t she feisty, Forn? Aye, she is. We’ll get a nice sum for this one,” the leader consulted mostly with himself, munching down on some more of his spit fruit. “If I wanted you ravaged, you wouldn’t be able to stand right now, wench. Now, let’s try this again. Who are you and who sent you?”

“If I’m truly to be a slave, then my name is irrelevant. And nobody sent me. I make it my business to rid the world of filth such as you and your little group.”

“You should’ve picked another job, wench,” Dhorian said, and even though he didn’t seem irritated by her constant defiance, a glance and a nod towards his subordinates made it clear what he really meant. All three came at Rheawien, the fat one tackling her from behind as the other two started to put down a barrage of kicks and punches on her body. She retaliated so much that it could be called a retaliation, taking the hits with a groan or two, but generally succeeding in diverting most of the really harmful strikes. Several of them hurt like a bitch, two that hit her spine and a third one that struck her breast, but soon all three were huffing and puffing and smiling, satisfied with their work. The sly one started to unlace his trousers, but the leader reprimanded them. “No. Take her to the cage. She will want this one untouched.”

The trip back to the cage was far less enjoyable then the one to the tent, the three pushing and groping and slapping her behind several times before throwing her back inside like a sack of beans. Rhea rested on her back for several seconds, starting at the lunula that hanged above like a giant bulk of silvery incandescence, and chortling just enough to send a jolt of ache through her freshly bruised body. “Well, that was fun.”

After a short while of pointless stargazing – Rheawien was never the type that saw some deeper meaning to the starry dome – she propped herself on her elbows and located the boy in the darkness of the cage. “Hey, kid. You hungry? I’m hungry. Let’s see what’s on the menu.” Not waiting for a response, the white-haired woman crawled on all fours to the side of the cage that looked over the campsite and the timid fire.

“Beans, beans, ew, cabbage, I don’t know what that is, ah, there you are,” she muttered, splaying her right hand and putting her fingers in motion. And even as she did so, the platter with half a chicken stirred and started to levitate, disappearing into the darkness as one of the slavers took a sip from one of the tawny bottles. Once the tin plate and the food reached the bars, it rotated sideways, passing through the wood and lowering itself into her hand. Once that was procured, Rheawien proceeded to do the same with a large pitcher of water. Setting both of those before herself and crossing her long grimy legs beneath her, she called the lad once again.

“You’re not hungry?”

Outside, a pair of voices rose louder then the others, arguing over who ate the chicken.

[Lucien]

As the pale-haired woman was spitefully escorted from the cage, Lucien finally felt at ease. Her intense eyes were something of a worry to the boy. He felt himself shifting uneasily in his small thatched corner, fearful of getting even a glimpse of those rich brown windows. The lad reclined back, curling into a ball on the wagons floor. The nights brought with them dreadful cold that gnawed like dogs on bones. It was short, but it would come none the less. Lucien needed to ready his frail body.

The ripe smells of poor cooking flooded the open aired cage. Expecting slavers to fry a half-decent meal was foolish, but it was still more than they gave their cargo. Scraps would be thrown in the midst of the wagons, causing a mini riot inside the the wooden bars. Harsh screams were common in the camps, followed by cheers of the well fed guards.

That night was different. The slavers seemed more tame and their quarry more placid. Bellowing laughter echoed in the air, followed by hurried whispers of the captives. Lucien couldn't quiet understand it all. Rheawen was brought back soon enough, a rather displeased grin on her face. The boy sat up in a start, fearfully removing the thumb he had in his mouth. The twerp feigned a stretch, pulling at the wooden bars behind his back. They were worn and splinted, tired from spiteful use. If he were only a bit stronger, maybe he could break them. The lad could break the bars and make a run for it, getting away from his ill-tempered roommate.

Her question caught him off guard. Lucien's daydreaming was legendary on Earth, so he'd missed the dyke's telekinetic show. The next thing he saw was a plate of ill-prepared meat in front of him, tempered by charcoal and filth. The punk turned shyly, unable to look her in those fierce eyes.

"No," he shuddered. "No...thank you." The boy scratched nervously at his arms. Sleep could not come soon enough.

***

It was daylight by the time Lucien had managed to pry his eyelids open. An eerie calm settled over the caravan. But as the boy sat up, he realized they were at a halt. Not in the same camp ground they were last night, but a sparely forested grove. Cooking smoke seemed a faint memory as sweet plants rushed his senses. The punk couldn't take the harsh sunlight, baring down through the bars.

The captives around Lucien were rushed from their cages, leaving the only home they had known in weeks. Something big was happening. Well dressed onlookers with curiously delightful faces crowded the area. Strangely, all seemed to be men with thick mustaches and thinning hair.

[Rheawien]

Unlike the chirpy day that dawned in all its splendor, Rheawien was a genuine example of a mess. Aside from her slovenly exterior that was indirectly forced on her by the current mobile habitat, the half-elf’s face was even more pallid then usual, a visage of a woman dangerously close to her deathbed. Small wonder given the night she had. After her cagemate refused to share a meal with her, Rhea proceeded to consume it on her own, partially because she was famished and partially out of spite to the slavers who kept bickering over the plate of chicken through most of the evening. Unfortunately, this cattiness came back to haunt her several hours later. She was just about to go to sleep when her stomach started rumbling in a very disturbing, unnatural manner. It took less then a minute for her meal to come back up the way it came, making Rheawien retch over and over again until there was nothing but bile and gastric juices to regurgitate. Luckily, she managed to make most of it land outside of the cage, so the reek of stale vomit was left behind once they broke camp, but it was clear that slavers won this round and got the last laugh.

The whole ordeal left the woman visibly jaded, and for the better part of the morning she sat in her corner, drifting between the world of dozing, where dreams and thoughts overlapped, and the reality that passed by. It was more of the same at the beginning, endless planes of a nameless countryside and tasteless japes of the mounted slavers. It was the slavers that irritated her the most. The idiotic bastards alternated between two topics; swords and whores, and they could go back and forth between those for what seemed like an indefinite amount of time. Rheawien had half a mind to break out of the cage right then and there, discarding the possibility to catch the whole lot of them at the headquarters, but the other half of her mind was too fatigued to act, too fatigued to do anything but sit there and be grateful that the barfing had stopped. Not that she had something else to do anything. Her company proved to be no company at all, the coy lad content with sleeping in his own corner. The unkempt woman thought of waking him up out of mere boredom, but she was too tired to do even that.

But before the sun had a chance to reach for the zenith, the scenery began to change gradually. The prairie at first became specked with bushes and saplings before a rather thin-looking grove encompassed the road. “This is it,” Rheawien thought, snapping out of weariness-induced reverie as much as she could. “Their headquarters must be hidden amidst all these trees.” It made sense; there was nothing quite like a secluded patch of forest to hide outlaws and their dens. The half-elf bitch hoped that they wouldn’t reach it at least until evening, which would’ve been ample time for her to recover, but it looked like this had to be done the hard way.

“Alright, Yves. Time to put these bastards to sword,” she sent a telepathic message to her phoenix as she plucked the orange feather from within her tousled ponytail. This wasn’t the first time her familiar had gone down in flames, so Rheawien expected for the firebird to rise as it always did. However, even as she took heed of the feather in her hand, she noticed that it was missing the fiery xanthous glow it usually emanated. She tried to flutter it, blow in it, warm it, even talk to it in a hushed voice, but there seemed to be no response from neither the feather nor her familiar.

“Bummer. I thought phoenixes couldn’t stay dead,” the white-haired woman thought, looking at the phoenix feather with disappointment. Yves would’ve been able to rejuvenate her completely, prepare her from what was to unfold, but it seemed that she was left completely to her own devices. “Of all these slaves, I get stuck with a wimp and a dead phoenix.”

It was definitely not a comforting thought as they trucked into the courtyard of the alleged headquarters. However, once Rheawien ascertained the environment, it was clear that her assumption was far from correct. Instead of shabby barracks with confinement cells, the last line of trees revealed a lofty, multi-winged manor, surrounded by oak trees that seemed genuinely ancient. Instead of swashbucklers with rusty armors and unattended blades, the caravan was greeted by a number of men that probably deemed themselves some royalty, all pressed and dressed and as inflated as balloons. She didn’t have to deliberate long on why they were there for.

Her conclusion was confirmed once they were forced out of the cages. The slavers lined them up like mules on a fair, threatened them to look their best and waited for the buyers to inspect the merchandise. Rheawien wasn’t impressed by neither the threats nor the look-alike men and their grabby eyes; she was too tired to be impressed. It came as no surprise that the line broke where she was supposed to stand, the half-elf taking a position several steps behind everybody and propping her back against one of the wagons. She reckoned that it would be a good plan to look as miserable as possible, so no one would buy her and she would proceed with the convoy to the headquarters, but given her current state, she figured she looked miserable enough. Who would’ve paid money for a woman that looked like she just went through hell and came back to tell the tale?

“That one.”

Rheawien was busy with checking her nails, so it came as no surprise that she failed to notice that she was that one. Only when one of the slavers caught her by the shoulder, slapped her behind with the wooden sword and bawled to GET BACK IN LINE did she notice who the potential buyers were. The man was rather unremarkable, another slick-haired creep in a long line of slick-haired creeps. The girl at his side though...

“Oh my...”

[Lucien]

Had Lucien paid more attention during the night, he would've known the reason why the faint smell of vomit still lingered in his cage. Still, the boy had a pretty good guess the oddly colored chicken had something to do with it. Dragged from his dreams by the dubious calls of the slavers, Lucien lifted his sloth form up a bit from the cage's hard floor. For weeks the cage had been his only bed, a small slice of comfort in a damnable situation were men preyed on other men for profit. The boy crept cowardly from his prison right after Rheawien. He waited a minute longer, just to put some space in between them.

The blaring sun above provided no alleviation for the lad. As the burning heat beat down upon his neck, the fear that it would become discolored and red caused beads of sweat to run down his forehead like a fountain.

Hush mumbles went through the ranks of the slaves as prospective buyers approached. There were mixed feelings all around. None wanted to be owned like a pet, forced to do the every bidding of their master. Yet none wanted to return to the cruel and callous hands of the slavers either. Lucien felt the double edged sword of a slave market above his head. Quiet wisps of perfume were everywhere. Expensive scents that smelt sickeningly sweet, a tang that burnt the inside nostrils as it forced its way down a throat; their would-be masters lacked common taste in cologne. The brightness of the sun cause Lucien to squint more then usual, his cat-like eyes peering through the robed balding men. Finally, a new vision stood before him.

Dressed in black from head to toe, the boy could tell at once she was from Earth; the Nine Inch Nails T-shirt gave it away. Lucien plainly saw her choice of eyeliner as she stood right in front of him, giving him the once over. Even through the make-up, he saw the girl's eyes light up when she noticed his jeans. Her jet black hair, obviously dyed, with tipped with red. The girl was roughly Lucien's age, a heart shaped face made her seem younger though. As the boy saw her pale face reach over to her pudgy master, he could tell she was whispering something about him.

"And that scrawny one too," said the balding man, his fat fingers rubbing against their own grease.

[Rheawien]

Try as she may, Rheawien couldn’t pinpoint the exact reason why the young girl made her feel all jittery and aflutter with nothing but a look and several words. Perhaps it was because even a thought of being owned by somebody evoked memories of Sarah Dahlios, whose pet the half-elf was for a short period of time. Ever since the encounter with the Lavinian thief, Rhea was desperate to find something similar, a relationship in which she was subdued, defeated. Being this girl’s slave probably wouldn’t be the same, but there would be some amount of perverse pleasure to be derived from it, Rheawien hoped. Especially given the way the lass looked. She was a peculiar vamp, preferring the black color so much that she even used it to outline her eyes, making them a stunning contrast to her fair face. She dressed rather conservatively though, donning a simple shirt with an odd inscription that had something to do with nails that were nine inches in length. Rhea didn’t quite understand what the shirt was all about, but it was mostly because she became more interested in what was beneath it and not on it.

What little mind wasn’t shot by this sudden lust warned Rheawien that she wasn’t here to satiate her twisted desires. No, she was here to strike at the heart of the slavers outfit, to rid the world of some of filth, to be a hero, a good girl. But the longer she stood in line and observed her probable owner, the more excuses the white-haired bitch found not to continue her mission. She was tired. The slavers were too many. She didn’t have Yves to aid her. She was no hero to begin with. She wasn’t getting paid anyways. The list went on, serving the solitary purpose of staying Rhea’s hand and making her yield to whatever demands this black fairy had. Ultimately, the reasonable part of her - the part that told her that she was assuming too much from too little - had no choice other then admitting defeat and steadying the retribution against the traders of men that she planned ever since she was captured.

The fact that the girl opted to buy the weakling that shared the cage with Rheawien for the duration of her captivity instilled some doubt, but by then the half-elf was already too determined to stay here that it didn’t matter. Not even the fact that all the weapons the slavers confiscated from her were rolling out of this place together with her captors managed to deter her from playing her role as a slave. So, once the stocky man exchanged some of his currency for the pair of slaves and the slavers trucked farther down the road, Rhea was left with her new masters. It was all a game, her distorted mind perceived, and she decided to play her role, if for no other reason then for vague hope to find something she failed to find as a free woman. And should the game go awry, she could escape this place easier then she could from a slaver’s cage.

“You two are despicable. We need to get you cleaned up,” the rotund man spoke to his new servants before turning to the dark girl at his side. “I don’t know why you wanted these two in the first place. There were plenty of others that looked like a better investment.”

“You said I could have whoever I want. These two seemed interesting. Different,” the lass replied, her tone almost uninterested as she inspected the odd pair a bit closer. “What are your names?”

“Who cares about their wretched names?” the man interjected before any reply could be given. His hand fished a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his striped dark blue suit and wiped the sweat from his brow. “They are slaves, they don’t need names. Come on, let’s get inside. This heat is killing me.”

They were escorted down the path covered with shingle by a pair of guards who seemed more then ready to lick them with their whips should they either stray or fall behind. Rheawien, though jaded, failed to do so, sticking rather close behind the pair that acquired them, contemplating on the relationship between the two. There was a fat chance that two were married, which made her believe that the girl was either the man’s fancy woman, a little squeeze on the side for whose company he had to count quite a few of his gold pieces. He didn’t seem to lack the shinnies though. The lofty manor was a rather majestic edifice from the outside, with freshly painted façade and lacquered arced windows that seemed almost too tall to the white-haired woman. The interior of the place, however, they never got a chance to see. While the girl and her benefactor proceeded through the main door, Rhea and her companion were led down a set of stairs that descended besides the main building, leading to the basement. The subterranean part of the building wasn’t all that bad, a bit moldy, a bit stuffy, but still as good as half the taverns she visited during her wandering.

She didn’t get to see a whole lot of it though. The guards pushed them down two hallways before they found themselves in a room covered with white tiles, with shower heads hanging loosely from the pipes above. “Strip and wash yourselves,” one of the guards said, pushing a soap into the boy’s hands before taking his place in the doorway, obviously having no intention to pass on a free show. Rheawien would’ve usually argued, would’ve probably smashed the guard’s face in order to get some privacy, but given the fact that the lad she was paired with was going to be present anyways, she figured another set of eyes passing over her naked curved wouldn’t be too much of an impact on her pride.

Taking off her clothes was a ridiculously easy task; all Rhea had to do was take off her high boots, slip out of her tight shorts and pull the grimy tank top over her head and she was as naked as the day she was born. Well, perhaps not that naked. There was still the scarlet collar around her neck, but that was a piece of apparel that she never took off. Instead, she undid the leather thong that held her hair in a ponytail before turning the rusty knob and releasing a gush of water. A gush of freezing water. Even with her resistance against cold, she failed to stifle an incomprehensible Dram curse as the liquid splashed over her pale skin. It was almost like bathing in liquid ice, but she got used to it fast enough, her lips turning a bit bluish as she did so. Ultimately, when she was properly sopped, Rheawien turned to the scared blonde lad.

“Could you pass the soap, kid?”

[Lucien]

(((Hope the little bunnying's alright.)))

From vile cages to a shower room, Lucien's journey seemed to come full circle in humiliation. The house the slaves had passed was breathtaking; it reminded the boy of school trips to Rhode Island mansions where the rich New Englanders spent lazy summers. Wealth flaunted for the masses to see as they only got a passing glimpse of luxury. The warm afternoon air was replaced by a strange dank feeling. As Rheawien and the boy were crassly escorted by the guards further down the hall, a wet gloom seemed to cling to their breaths. The lad found himself wrapping his arms around his torso, a shiver running up his spine. "It's like a school lockeroom down here," he mused before sending a passing glance to Rheawien. "Minus the good part."

When the command came to strip, a stir started down in Lucien pants. A strange mixture of excitement and horror tingled across the boy's body. Their shower was the last place Lucien wanted to disrobe. Grime clung to the grout of the tiles, and mold added an unneeded carpet to the floor. Still, the leer on the guard's face was all the persuasion the lad needed. His jeans, shirt, and boxers were torn off from his sticky body. The smell hit him at once; he'd just become so use to his own stench it hadn't occurred to him earlier. Sure, he knew he wasn't fresh as a daisy, but that musty reek burnt nose hair and killed nerve cells. "Maybe I do need a shower."

Waves of humiliation tumbled through Lucien's now beet-red form. He could feel the guard's eyes on him, looking him over. The boy tried his best to cover up a little, especially his obvious arousal. One look at Rheawien killed that quickly enough. A little disturbed at the site of her bare chest, he tiptoed a discolored, makeshift shelf. The soap smelled rancid, like bacon left in the sun for days. He was glad to hand it off to her, wanting the whole experience to just be done with.

***

Their clothes had been collected for whatever reason, though Lucien doubted they'd be destroyed; buying clothes for slaves seemed like a waste. For now, a ragged cloth used as a towel was the only thing usable; although Rheawien quickly snatched that up, leaving the boy to cover himself.

Another set of tunnels, though these seemed older and carved into the Earth itself. The floor was rough like sandpaper, an easy trek for guards in boots. But bare feet made the walk look comical with all the jumps and squeals. When slaves finally reached a worn, stone staircase, the guards ordered the pair to stop. One was left to watch them over while the other entered a door that looked like it belonged in some medieval dungeon in a bad T.V. special. Lucien was left there with Rheawien, one hand covering himself, the other trying to warm his ice pick nipples. "Damn that shower..."

((Now have them bring us to a basement, give us a room together, most likely because they'll think Lucien no threat to a woman.))

[Rheawien]

((Apologies for the delay.))

Rheawien hoped that now that the shower ordeal was done, she would be reintroduced to the dark girl she coveted, but her hopes were washed down the drain together with the grime she scrubbed off her skin moments ago. The thin piece of gray cloth that might’ve been a fluffy towel a decade ago was the only thing that covered the half-elf’s pale skin as she and her companion were led deeper into the bowels of the mansion. Rhea wasn’t particularly cold or chagrined with her nudity, but she reckoned that the pair of guards feasted their eyes on it quite enough for one day. So she held the towel wrapped around her body tightly, walking alongside the obviously embarrassed boy that managed to develop a blush despite shivering from the chill.

The shadowy hallways grew dimmer and smellier the farther they were marched. It wasn’t a horrible stench, but rather an airless scent that always clung to basements where things were discarded to be forgotten, and it grew in prominence with each step. The light of day was unsurprisingly evicted from these subterranean levels, leaving only the sporadic shimmering of oil lamps to illuminate their ways. They did a good job at taking them from one hallway intersection to the other, but not so good at letting them know that there was something wrong with the floor tiling. And suddenly Rheawien felt as if she was walking on gravel, her feel doing their best to step as lightly and tentatively as possible. Combined with her elven heritage that granted her a rather light step, she didn’t wind up hopping from one foot to the other like a mummer on a really bad stage show like the blonde boy did.

Eventually, they descended down the flight of half-circular stairs – that looked both genuinely ancient and genuinely unkempt – and dipped even deeper into the dimness. However, once one of the guards enlightened the only petroleum lamp in the room, it became clear that they reached their destination. The room that the flicker of the tiny flame revealed had an outlook of a detention cell in some of the worse prisons in Corone. The cots were a handful of planks linked together, hanging one above other to conserve space of which there was very little. There were no blankets, no chairs, no pillows, not even a proper toilet. Just a large rusty bucket resting unceremoniously in the corner. Luckily, it seemed that nobody used it for a while because the room smelled like the rest of the basement.

“Geez, I wonder what’s the food like in here,” Rheawien said, assertive and acrimonious as usual as she stepped into the room that she and the boy were obviously meant to share. A forceful shove from behind nearly made her crumble forward and hit her head on the top bunk. Luckily, while one of her hands held the towel in position, the other managed to react in a prompt manner and steady her balance on the moldy wall.

“You won’t be getting any if you keep running your mouth like that,” the guard said, throwing what looked like a sack into her face. “Put that on, both of you. You are to wait here until they find use for you.”

Rhea had quite a few ways in which the dark girl could use her, but it seemed none of those particular fantasies would come true any time soon. The guards exited the cell, slamming and locking the screeching door made of wood reinforced with iron, leaving the pair alone in their new home.

“Well, they certainly know how to make a person feel welcome,” Rheawien said, smirking at the lad before turning her attention to the piece of cloth that the guard threw at her. Her initial assumption that it was a sack was justified by the fact that the makeshift tunic was actually made of burlap. The sackcloth was rugged, announcing definite chafing as soon as it was put on, but given the fact that the only other option was to walk around in a towel, the white-haired woman proceeded to don it. The tunic had no sleeves, falling loosely around Rhea and reaching around the middle of her thighs. It wasn’t the most ample covering for her naked body, especially given the fact that she had no smallclothes, but it did a better job then the towel.

“They could’ve given us another sack for pants at the very least,” she commented, climbing onto the top cot and looking towards her silent companion who once again seemed reluctant to communicate. Unlike her disturbed self, he seemed genuinely impacted by these whole slave shebang, the way a normal person would.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” Rheawien couldn’t help saying, her legs dangling restlessly as she sat on the edge of her bunk. “Well, seeing as we’re going to be roommates, at least you could give me your name.”

[Lucien]

((Ditto))

Despite Lucien's best efforts, soft sniffles and rolling tears began to form on his face. The boy tried to hide it as best he could, putting up a pitiful front to mask the pain. It had all just hit him right then, the entire experience rolled into one great package. He was a slave; the property of another person and subject completely to their whim. The lack of freedom wasn't the worst of it. He couldn't seem to deal with the changes that kept coming. From the beating he took when he was first captured, to the sight of that girl that seemed to be from Earth, the boy's simple life had become a fast and rapid stream of movement that showed not end to the rocky shallows. "Dammit. I miss the days were all I had to worry about were black heads and homework."

At least he wasn't nude anymore, he took some solace in that. But the garment thrown over him was as thick and scratchy as Ron Jeremy's back hair and nearly twice as repugnant. It stopped just above mid-thigh, assuring anyone behind Lucien would get a show if the boy went to pick something up.

Rheawien, the nimble elf that proved to be as crass as the foulest of sailors, hopped up on the top plank with sprite steps. The lad's best efforts in the shower room had been a waste as he caught a glimpse of a part of her he wished he hadn't seen. She seemed just as talkative as before, but Lucien still felt shy around her efforts to be friendly. He could barely look her in the eye without blushing from introversion.

It was ridiculous, he knew that. Clenching his fists as hard as he could, the boy elected to act a tad more sociable to her, for the sake of appearance at least. Trying his best to seem calm, he leaned against a filthy wash basin that hadn't seen use since its creature. "I'm - " was all he could get out before the porcelain piece smashed to the stony ground. He face flustered and beat red, he gripped himself to gain some composure. "Lucien. My name is Lucien. Ugh, Sorry?"

The room grew steadily more quiet then, a sullen beauty beset the dungeon as qucikly and quietly as a rolling breeze. Things grew a just a little more calm.