The stage was constructed of hard, blackened wood. Weathered by years of city filth, rain and the tread of a hundred thousand pairs of bare feet. Nails protruded here and there, indicating shoddy repair over the years, and the guards on either side of the wide staircase were nudging the ascending men and women with the shafts of their pole-arms to help them avoid tearing their feet. In a few moments, the small crowd were looking on with vague interest as the dozen men and half a dozen women were lined up.
The slave-master, a corpulent man with a finely trimmed beard held in a gold ring, was treading between them, poking a man in the gut here, a women in the small of her back there.
“Stand up straight.” He snapped, his switch darting out and prodding a huge, muscled youth in the abdomen. Nearby him a teenage girl was weeping softly. The slave-master stepped over to her and lowered his voice.
“Come now, not the time for that. You smile, show your teeth, and look happy. No one wants a crying girl full of troubles and tears. Pretty girl, probably be snapped up by some young dandy eh? Yes... lovely.”
The man stepped back, his chins wobbling, and surveyed the girl afresh.
“Actually, come, Lonn!” He called. One of his guardsmen trotted over, armour clanking. The slave-master clicked his fat fingers at the girl, up and down, indicating her.
“This one shouldn’t be here, look at her. She’s far too pretty. Have her up with the nice ones! Every time I find these mistakes at the last minute! This is very distressing!”
His great bulk giving the stage cause to groan, he tottered off, not watching as the guard shoved the girl to the other side of the stage where the shapelier, comelier examples were gathered, and had her shift unceremoniously removed. Naked, she remained weeping whilst the slave-master addressed the crowd.
It was a good day for it, the crowd seeming energetic. The slave-master’s plants asked the best questions, demanded the finest muscles to be flexed, the finest breasts bared, and of course drove up the price with a careful bid placed where necessary. The weeping girl sold swiftly, tear stained though she was. A gaggle of pretty young women with personal bodyguards were in the front row, giggling and pushing at each other, demanding to see the most well muscled of the males on offer, and squealing with laughter when a mountain of a man had his breech-clout removed to reveal his endowment.
Ten of the best sold, the slave-master began lowering prices, selling a few off in bulk to a shipbuilder for hard labor, and two women to a whorehouse, regardless that both were far homelier and better fit to scullery work than the more expensive females on offer. It was a while before the plants asked the question that would set them off.
“Where’s the special ones today?”
“Yeah, last week you had the Orc woman! I watched her rip the head clean off a wolf in the pits! And tits big as watermelons!”
The slave-master raised his hands in mock surrender.
“Oh my friends, my friends. Good people such as yourselves know quality, I am aware. This week, I feared I would let you down. Why, after being the proud procurer of such fine flesh as Devon Town, who even now stands champion of the melee combat arena here in Truronia, yes! He was purchased right here!”
He stomped a sandal clad foot down on the boards beneath him, gesturing to the reverence of the place beneath his feet.
“Even the beguiling eyes of Lady Gresch, the Dawn Elf actress. Once she stood, golden hair gleaming, naked, upon this very stage, for the taking of a wise buyer. This week, I feared nothing would match such grand sales of the past. I know the finest of Truronia comes here, to me, to find their next hero, their next legend!”
He shook his head, his chins wobbling, building up to a crescendo.
“That was, until only two nights ago! When the gods themselves saw fit to throw a creature of such uniqueness into my hands, I knew not what to do. Why, what would a simple, honest businessman like myself do, when something falls into my hands I know to be wild, uncontrollable. Even my trained guards are afraid, see them quiver!”
“Come on!”
“What is it?”
“Bring him out already!”
Genuine questions. The slave-master gave a flourish, jabbering to his guardsman over his shoulder.
“Lonn! Get her! Go!”
He bowed, far as his bulk would allow, to his audience.
“Fine people of Truronia, if you seek rarity. I present to you, merchandise unlike any you have ever seen before!”
It took two guards to gingerly escort the slender figure up the staircase, and although the woman made no violent move, both kept at arm's distance. Her step was light, and would have been quiet if she had not been hobbled with a manacles about her ankles, her arms held tight behind her back with similar noisy metal cuffs.
The audience seemed disappointed.
“A girl?”
“A skinny one!”
Once herded to the front of the stage, the slave-master strode up proudly to gesture pudgy fingers covered in rings at the new arrival.
“If you seek rarer examples of flesh, seek no further.”
The woman was clearly slim, hidden behind a filthy white shift, her entire head covered in a tied sack. The slave-master made a patient pass around behind her, delighting in the theatrics.
“I never thought I’d get a chance to reveal a being of such quality, Such rarity. Only the truly specialized in taste would seek something so....dangerous?” He licked his lips, a look of mock fear on his face. He paused longer for effect, before he slipped forward to tug the ties from the girl’s back. Her shift slipped loose around sharp collarbones.
“Off with it girl!” The slave-master barked, prodding her in the back.
A snarl came from beneath the sacking obscuring her face, but the shoulders of the figure shrugged, and the shift came slipping off to the floor. The crowd gave a gasp of mixed appreciation and surprise. A few men whistled lewdly.
The revealed skin was pale, unburned by the glaring sun. Not in the welcoming milkiness of a courtesan's soft flesh, however, but ghost pale skin, bearing the harsh blue lines of veins beneath. It gave the suggestion of the wan translucency normally reserved for the dead.
Where other women on display tended towards an underfed gauntness or an adolescent skinniness, the form now standing naked center stage was a warrior work of art. The woman was a masterpiece of tight, lean muscle. From long legs built for running, to a tense stomach lined with the shadow of lean abdominal muscle. All over, the body bore tales of combat, the thin white scars of blades, yellowing bruises from the impact of fists or clubs. Through all the damage, the girl stood like she were made of stone, straight, unbowed.
There were appreciative calls from the crowd, the fitness of the subject obviously head and shoulders above the rest on display.
“Don’t be fooled. The strength in these nubile arms is like a quay chain. Why, it’s only her temper held in check that keeps her from tearing loose this very moment!” The slave-master cried, spreading his hands wide.
“How does she fuck?” Called a voice.
There was a guffaw from the audience. The slave-master addressed it with a pointed finger.
“Ah, certainly a fine question. Especially with such treats to the eyes as you are lucky to see!”
He gestured to the girl’s pert breasts, the pale points of nipples upturned to the sky and the high curving hipbones that angled down invitingly. At the apex of the girl’s thighs, a mound of bright purple hair made a visual exclamation point of her cunt.
“A clear delight in all the fleshy respects, any man can see that. Surely she is a wild animal among the sheets! But to bring this one to bed.... do you dare? For this young lady is far more than meets the eye. My fine people of Truronia, I invite you, if you so dare, to lay eyes on one touched by the fires of the infernal realms!”
Throwing his arms wide to punctuate his mystical finish, the slave-master untied the string around the sacking, and pulled it from the woman’s head.
The crowd gasped, some in awe, some in delight. A mop of unkempt purple hair crusted with old blood adorned her head, hanging over a face that surely hadn’t seen twenty summers. A face with high cheekbones and a small, cruel mouth. Her eyes closed against the sudden brightness at first, but when opened, surveyed the crowds before her with glaring yellow orbs. Bloodshot and watery, the eyes had the suggestion of madness about them, darting from face to face, observing.
The red lips turned down in distaste, and her arms made one brief tug against the manacles that held her hands behind her back.
“Yes, ladies and gentlemen, fine people of Truronia. Whether you seek a warrior on par with the most savage Orcress, a lover more wild than a Merrow whore, or a mind sharper than the Shattered edges, Protiya can be all, for one who dares! Show ‘em your teeth girl!”
The woman named Protiya opened her mouth into a snarl, baring a ruby red tongue and teeth noticeably sharp. Her canines were curved inwards enough to give an animal edge to the expression, not in the least softened by one on the bottom, which was cracked and broken from some savage strike to the mouth. Her expression remained a picture of disinterested disgust, but a cock to her hips suggested she took some delight in frightening people. Protiya leaned forward, extending her tongue at one of the young women in the front rows. Recoiling women squealed, silks held tight in hands and expressions of disgust and fear obvious.
Still the eyes looked, they darted. Searching. She met the eyes of a man midway through the crowd. She let her teeth close on her bottom lip ever so briefly, letting it pop out with the barest suggestion.
Before the slave master could continue his sales pitch, the man raised a well manicured hand.
“I like her spunk! I can tame her!” He shouted, stepping forward. Draped in aristocratic finery, a guard at his side. He’d already purchased himself a tall, willowy blonde that was waiting patiently nearby.
The slave-master gestures open handed to the man, eyebrows raised.
“Surely sir, you seek women of finer taste, of softer edges than this...this beast you see before you!”
The man approached the stage, the arm of his previous acquisition gripped firmly by his guard.
“She is no beast, she’s just been taught a thing or two more than once. Maybe she needs a soft touch.”
He reached out to touch Protiya’s leg from the ground before the stage. The tight limb gave a little, edging towards his caress.
The slave-master leaned towards his customer, resting his hand on Protiya’s naked hip.
“Do you think you are up to the task sir? Surely you are a man of discerning tastes, not a trader in blood for the pits?”
The man was looking up at Protiya, his viewpoint granting him an unapologetic gaze between the warrior’s legs. He wasn’t looking at the eyes, that stared past him at the guardsman. At blades, at buckles in armor.
“Two thousand, silver.”
The slave-trader threw up his hands exasperatedly.
“Two thousand he says?” He asked of the crowd. There was traditional jeering, even from those who’d never see that much money in their lifetimes.
“Two and a half!” Came the call from one of the slave-master’s plants. The portly man pointed a finger.
“Another admirer of the demon’s charms!” the slave-master looked to the man at his feet, open hand as if to grasp the next bid.
The man was staring up at Protiya, at the sharp line of her hips, the taut stomach.
The slave-master’s tongue darted out to wet his lips, concerned his plant had gone too high.
Protiya’s eyes, finished of their appraisal, dropped to meet those of the admirer at her feet. Slowly, a smile touched her wolfish features. Teeth showing at the corners of her lips. A smile full of kisses and promises.
“Can you speak, girl?” He asked.
“Speak? She can read even! A mind behind the ferocity in those eyes. Speak, girl!” The slave-master jabbed her in the gut with his switch.
Protiya opened her mouth, taking a breath, slowly.
“I greet thee. Who, heart willing, leads me over mountains to freedom. They will envy us our nest.”
Her voice was like rattlesnake kisses in the ear. Husky and dry, but sweet.
“Three thousand.” He said, smiling up at the girl.
The slave-master clapped his hands,
“If there is nothing further?” He asked of the crowd tersely, drumming fingers on the back of his hand in an apparently idle gesture, his signal for plants to stop bidding. Then his eyes glimmered with glee.
“Sold! Fine sir, quite a purchase I assure you. This one is capable of oh so much. Much more than meets the eyes.”
The slave-master gestured for his guards to redress the girl, but the man hissed up at him.
“I’ll take her as is. The outfit suits her.” He smiled, and Protiya smiled back. Her expression crumpled with discomfort as she twisted in her manacles.
“Off with the steel, I have assistance.” The man demanded.
The slave-master, coming around, grabbing hands eager for coin, waved a finger in warning.
“I would highly recommend keeping the steel on until you get her home. Fast legs, this one. I’ll add in the manacles, superior quality, for just fifty extra. The girl also had some personal belongings, leathers, jewelry, so on.”
Protiya’s eyes were turned down, slowly creeping up to meet her new master's gaze.
“No, I think she’ll behave. She won’t be needing her old things.”
The slave-master tutted, but shrugged, waving a hand at Lonn to remove the manacles about the girl's wrists and ankles.
Free of her bonds, Protiya rubbed her wrists silently, and after looking at the offered limb for a long moment, took the hand that was offered to lead her from the wooden stage of the slave block.
The slave-master regained the stage after much huffing and puffing back up, and resumed his sales pitch. His echoing voice fading behind as the bodyguard gripped Protiya by the shoulder and steered her after her new master.
People parted in the rich man’s wake as he strode proudly away, followed by the barely dressed blonde, her eyes downcast, with Protiya and the guardsman last.
---
As they strode through the stone alleyways of Truronia’s market district, he began to speak over his shoulder.
“In my home, you will find all the amenities you should need. The bath house, the games quarter. You will respect the authority of my staff, and in turn you shall be respected. He stole a glance back over his shoulder, at the blonde, and Protiya looming behind.
“You, you have any skills beyond the obvious?”
The blonde coughed, like there was something stuck in her throat.
“Speak when you’re spoken to, girl. You will learn.”
The girl gave another startled cough, before nodding concomitantly.
The man sighed.
“You were four hundred silver Callans, we get what we pay for, don’t we? I’ve spent more on horses.”
He looked back, to where Protiya was staring. Always staring, that one. He smiled inwardly, eager to get her home for exploration.
“You stay out of the main halls, and enter only by the doors that border the gardens and the pools, unless you’re asked to present to the house I don’t expect to see….”
He continued, going over the houses, the rules as they strode through a low overhang and into an empty alley. He paid no heed to the filthy derelicts in the street as he stepped over them, nor the noises of scuffle behind him.
“As for the evenings, when you are sent for...”
The blonde gave a started mutter, a few words.
“Interrupt me when I am speaking, and you’ll learn, again. Do you hear?”
Irritation caused him to finally turn his head, and his intended threat died in his throat.
His bodyguard was fighting for breath through a mouthful of blood, a dagger buried to the hilt between the clasps of his breastplate.
The man stepped back in shock, his voice choking and lost in the awareness of mortality. The guard crumpled to the dust, and with not so much as a shadow to mark her disappearance, Protiya was gone.
---
The slave master was whistling to himself as he lay out the day's takings in neat piles on his desk, doing up each bag of two thousand callans with dainty bows. He patted the last bag on the top like it was a pet, and crossed the room to throw open the windows to the Truronia night. Moonlight gleamed through into his small chamber.
He began to move to his decanter, the fine red liquor his reward at the end of any day, and stopped as he passed a small chest.
Muttering to himself, he nudged the chest open with a chubby foot, and bent to pull out the contents.
Two blades, small and sharp. His careful eye squinted. Possibly silver. He placed them on the bed.
A horrid looking claw attachment. He tried it over his own hand. Too small. Pretty though, filigree carving. He placed it beside the knives.
A shortsword. Cheap. He tossed it behind him where it clattered to the floor by the bedpan for the maid to remove.
The garments he removed looked positively ridiculous next to his frame. Small black silks, some plain underthings, a set of leather armour, black, cut for a small frame. He turned them around, seeking any sign of superior design or craftsmanship.
The slave master knew the prices of many things, but garments weren’t among them. Especially a female’s. He snorted to himself. The less they had to wear, the better, as far as he was concerned. He balled up the garments tight and moved to toss them behind him, when the light from the window was blocked.
He turned, and gave a shriek.
Protiya was squatting in the window frame. Balanced with arched feet, her lithe body was luminous in the moonlight, elbows resting on her spread knees. She gave a horrible smile. His heart gave a lurch, and he turned for the door.
The woman was behind him before the slave master even taken a step. Her body pushed up against his back, her claws around his throat. She spun him in her arms and pinched his face close to hers, hot breath in his eyes.
His voice squeaked through pinched lips, and she tossed him aside. Losing his balance, he crashed into his nightstand, sending his decanter smashing to the floor in shatters of crystal.
He looked up through blurry eyes. Protiya slipped the undergarments on, then the silks, and began strapping on her leathers.
“What are you going to do with me?” He said, his voice quiet in the little room.
Protiya didn’t look back at him, only strapped the claw onto her wrist. She flexed it, and let her arm drop to her side. The black armour fit her frame like second skin. She left the shortsword where it lay, and instead swiped two of the pouches from the desk.
The slave master reached out a fat little hand as if to stop her, then thought better of it. He watched as Protiya weighed the two pouches of silver coins. She threw one to the ground, and stuffed the other into her belt loop.
She moved for the window, the armour making no sound with the movement.
Protiya gave the man a look as she climbed out the window, her yellow eyes peering down curiously at the fat man on the floor, his bedrobe stained with wine he’d traded a teenage girl for.
“Find happiness.” She cooed, and leapt from the window into the Truronian night.
