Completed A Girl With A Brand

[Kit Rowan]

Day 5, Summer, 513 AV In the playhouse in Alvadas, sometimes Kit entertained herself with the shows there. There was much love for Ionu in their plays and Gods above Kit had to have seen them all by then. Clever thieves and silver-tongued children and tricksters one and all found obstacles and walked out the other end laughing with a bag full of gold, a bellyfull of wine, with confusion and considerably less wealthy persons at their back. "Robust and athletic female specimen here, acrobat by trade, plucked fresh off the Kabrin Road!" Kit tried to imagine the story. It was her only solace. So there she was, hauled up across half of Sylira in chains, branded and abused, auctioned off to the servants of the God of Evil as a slave. In his own city! "You there, you look like a man of unique taste. How would you like a young, supple virgin lass to warm your bed? She can bend to shapes you wouldn't dream were possible, eh? Whaddya say, another for the harem? Come on up, give 'er a good squeeze, but if ya want to finish the job you've gotta pay." It was happening to another Kit, in another place, on the stage in the playhouse. Grim, ain't it? And if it'd been any other girl, it'd be the end of a sad story. But this one was touched by Ionu, and they pick their servants carefully. But, we know you're asking yourselves, how can anyone get out of this? "Working on it," Kit breathed, her eyes downcast and subservient. The slavers had chosen to take all her clothes north with her to pass on to her buyer, but they had decided any clothes would be a hindrance on the auction floor and left her no choice but to conjure up yet another seeming of bare skin over Ionu's mark. She felt a hand close around her waist, skirt possessively up her side. Her whole body tensed She looked up at the man who . . . No. Not a man. It was scarcely a boy. Maybe Kit's age, if that. He had a big, almost embarrassed smile on his face as his hands explored . . . but there was a hunger there, a want. Fear plucked Kit like an instrument, and she trembled at his touch. "I see we have an interested consumer, hm? She is untrained in the art of love, but you could train her to your preferences, and never need take the walk to the House of Immortal Pleasures again. Think, this foreign little flower, all yours." "Mine?" He said, testing the air with the word, the lilt of his voice suggesting he liked the taste. But Kit did not like the sound. Get your hands off me, Kit thought, and her mask broke. She stared hatred into his face, and he winced away from her and—gods yes—lifted his filthy hands off her body. "Feisty, isn't she? Don't let her discourage you, sir." Kit felt a soft, chastising slap on the back of her head that the slaver probably imagined was enough a warning. "She can always be trained." Still silence. Her would be owner examined Kit top to bottom. He licked his lips, and Kit shuddered under his imaginings. A different voice, deeper and scratchier than either. "What's this I hear about an acrobat?" The boy took a nervous step back, like a child caught peering where he oughtn't. Kit turned sideways to find the source. She saw a small, man with a severe face forcing his way up the side of the podium. There was something . . . Off about the man, Kit thought. Something strange. What was it, what was it, what was it? "Ah, Mr. Song, you've heard right! We have her right here. A fine creature, if I don't say so myself." "Not too pretty though, I see." He said. "But, ah, she does seem quite physical apt. I could see it." He raised a hand to his chin and sudden as a storm, Kit understood; where his other hand should have been Kit saw only a worn-over stump. Her mind confronted the fact of life without a hand and Kit felt revulsion wrack her face. "Yes a cripple, but a free cripple. No one's lining up to make me their petch toy. Heh." He stepped up, forced her eyes open wide with two fingers. "She hasn't been getting much sleep," he said. Grabbed Kit's arm. "Firmer than I was expecting. Strong muscles." He examined her like a piece of meat, divorced from lust. "Rhysol bless you, I think you're telling the truth; girl's got the build of an acrobat. You an acrobat, lass?" He grabbed hold of her chin and looked into her eye. Examined every piece of her, till she felt an insect under a knife. "You lie to me, I'll tie you up on the side of the canal and invite every citizen who passes by to petch you. Well?" "I am," Kit told the truth, though really there weren't many things she wouldn't say to get her away from the possibility of being bought as as someone's twice-damned bedslave. Quiet for a long moment. A sharp nod of the head. "I believe you. I'll take her. This ain't even a contest. The boy's just window shopping anyway."

[Kit Rowan]

They didn't give her back her clothes. They gave him her clothes, and let him decide whether he wanted to hand them to her. It was the little indignities that burned. He eyed her colorful Alvad gear with disdain and passed Kit her boring ones. "I am Jakless Song," the cripple said. "But you will call me master." Kit made a note not to call him the cripple to his face, looked down in her best attempt at meekness. "Yes, master." She turned her face away from him and rolled her eyes. Escape would be troublesome. Kit could fool anyone in Ravok into thinking she was not a slave, but that gained Kit little enough. How would she buy passage away? How would she be sure they would not capture her again while she was wearing a new face? "I host a home for performers that wander the streets and bring their profits to me. You will follow another slave for seven days, and there learn to perform for the people of Ravok. Then you begin to work." Kit frowned at his back. "I know how to perform in the streets," she said, pride twisting the tenor of the words. Jakless scowled over his shoulder at her. "Well aren't you special?" He spat. The rest of her clothes were still tucked under his arm. Kit watched it close, very close. She remembered the way it fell across her skin. She remembered being measured for it and trying it on for the first time in Alvadas. She itched to wear it again. "You're not going to work right away regardless. I've things to arrange, first." He wouldn't have her work in what she was wearing now, Kit was sure. The cripple would give her gear back. She was sure of it. "Could I learn the city?" Kit said, made her voice innocent, crooked her head to the side. The cripple turned around and Kit saw the scowl plain on his face; had she gone too far, then? "So that I know the high traffic places," Kit said. "Where people go. Where it's safe to go." He grimaced. "Fine, then. Fine!" He spat sideways into the canal. "Ground rules," he hissed. "I give an order, follow, no question, no exception, no nothing!" Smile and nod. Smile and nod."I will. Master." I. The words tasted foul in her mouth. Ionu's servants can wear many masks, she told herself, her hands closing into fists as she walked. This is my first. A mask. I am alone and no one will save me. He narrowed his eyes, studied her, like he didn't believe. Maybe she should have been more defiant? Was obedience suspicious? Still, he kept on. "Anyone gives you an order, you follow, unless it gets in the way of mine. Jet gives you an order, you follow. You ever want to hide your brand?" Kit blinked, searched for a proper answer, opened her mouth . . . "You don't get to hide your brand. You do? Bad things happen." There wasn't much to say to that. Kit walked three steps behind him down Ravok's narrow canals and stewed in the cage of her thoughts. The cripple lead Kit to Ravok's very edge, where canals opened up to the open waters of the lake. At the very end was a squat little building with a slanted roof, Lake Ravok stretching to touch the edges of the horizon behind it. "This is your home now." The cripple said, and Kit missed Alvadas more than ever.

[Kit Rowan]

"Here is where you sleep," the cripple told Kit. "Wait for Jet here." And slammed the door shut behind her. There was no one there. It was a long room with a low, sloped ceiling, clean and tidy and utterly empty. There were . . . half a dozen bedrolls laid out neatly, not a foot from one another. She could see an empty washpan in the corner, and a little seat with a hole that Kit could only assume to be where they were to relieve themselves. It must have fallen directly into the lakewater. What else could it keep from smelling? She took a seat on one of the bedrolls and wrapped her hands around her knees, hugging them tight to her chest. The quiet raised against her like an old enemy. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in . . . She was enslaved! Oh Gods, where had she gone wrong? I am alone, and no one will save me. "I don't need anyone," she insisted. "I just need me." But, alone in the silence doubt found her, and the prowess of an acrobat who'd seen seventeen autumn seemed awfully insignificant. "I—It'll make a good story," Kit said, forcing an ugly rictus of a smile. "When I get out." It was simpler to be brave in front of people; they were easier to fool. She didn't feel like a hero, like a trickster, like a clever lass with a card up her sleeve. She just felt like a broken girl with a brand on her back; frightened and alone. The fatigue of half a season's marching and worrying and feeling seized Kit. She fell to her side on the bedroll, coiled into a protective ball and let sleep take her. Her dreams were strange and dark.

[Kit Rowan]

Bells or chimes or seasons later, Kit roused, woke in a strange place with a hard floor. She pushed herself up, rubbed her eyes and stared uncomprehending around the room before she remembered where she was. Oh, she thought, and her shoulders fell. Something in the corner moved and Kit jolted to alertness, eyes swiveling to find it. There was someone standing in the door. The cripple had been worn, like a carpet walked on so long that it started coming apart under your feet. This man was none of those things. He was big and tall, broad-shouldered with dark eyes, dark hair and a long, chiseled face that made Kit's heart skip two beats. "Hello," he said, his voice low and deep. "Master told me to expect you. I am Jet." Her eyes tore away from his face and found a brand on the back of his left hand as he held it out for her to take. Kit swallowed her nervousness and took hold of his hand. "I'm—" Jet made a soft, sharp sound in the back of his throat and held up a palm in the universal gesture for stop. "No," he murmured, so kindly he took Kit off guard. "That name belonged a free girl. It isn't yours. Not anymore." "Wh . . . ?" "Freeborn slaves always have it the hardest." He said, the picture of sympathy, pulling Kit to her feet and laying a hand on her cheek. "They always have some little defiance, some little prayer for escape and rebellion. It won't work, I'll tell you now. It never does. Forget freedom. Forget your name. They always do. The only difference is how much pain it takes to learn." And whatever Kit's plans to act and simper and pander fell apart as her temper betrayed her again. "You can't take my name from me!" She hissed, tearing her arm away from him and taking a wide, aggressive stance. "You can't!" "If you ever use a name that isn't given to you," Jet said, simple and slow, like he was explaining something clear and obvious to a child, "then I will inform the master, and there will be pain, until you throw away your free name. Don't make me do that." Make you? Kit felt tears welling up in the corner of her eyes. Yell, stomp, scream! Don't stand around, shake your head like what you're asking is reasonable! He looked her over, top to bottom, and said. "Red," Jet nodded to himself, reached up and rested a hand on top of her head. He smiled. "Your name is Red now." They wanted to lay siege on her identity? Petch them. "My name," she hissed. "Is Kit."

[Kit Rowan]

Jet only shook his head sadly and walked back up the stairs. And five minutes later the cripple marched down, grabbed Kit by her hair and dragged her up after him, spitting insults and slurs before he threw her into a lightless closet and locked the door from the other side. "Let me out!" Kit pounded a fist on the door. "Let me OUT!" No response. They wouldn't break her! They wouldn't take her name! It was hard to keep track of time. Kit crossed her arms and sat against the door, closing her eyes. She breathed, in, out. In, out. In, out. After a long moment, her heart calmed with her breathing. And she was still stuck in the closet. Kit felt around the edges. It wasn't big enough for her to stretch her arms and reach from one end to the other. If she stood up, her head nearly touched the ceiling. When she ran her hands around the walls she felt nothing extra. Was this why this room was here? Punishment? Ha! Who would break under chimes and silence? Not Kit, not Kit. Silence. Kit plucked at her breeches and rolled over. Closed her eyes and tried to sleep. Failed. She imagined the rooftops of Alvadas, tried to fill her mind with the past to keep it from focusing on the present, but all it did was make her body itch to move again. To dance again. Could one move around the rooftops of Ravok, Kit wondered? "Red?" Jet's voice said, soft, and Kit gritted her teeth and said nothing. Oh the stories she'd tell when she got out! She'd make them crueler in the telling. Except for the Cripple, she supposed. He made a good villain already. Her belly rumbled and Kit laid a hand on top of it, her eyes a little wider. They'd feed her, surely. Surely! Kit could smell something; some kind of vegetable soup? Beans, maybe? They'd slip her something. Surely. "Red?" Kit bit down hard on her lower lip. Said nothing. The smell gradually faded to a memory. Time passed. Her stomached whined, refusing to stand in solidarity with the rest of her. Kit crossed both her hands over her midsection and tried to turn her mind to something else, but her body betrayed her. Food. It insisted. Food! FOOD! I won't break! I'm alone, and no one will save me. Fool girl, your stubbornness will starve you, and then how will you escape? My name is KIT! Food, food, food . . . Kit held her head in her hands as her stomach protested. "I'm Kit," she whimpered. "Kit, Kit, Kit!" "Stupid girl," she hissed to herself. "You're really attached to one name for someone who says they serve Ionu." Six forevers later Kit heard footsteps down the hall. There were four sharp knocks on the door. "Red?" Jet's voice asked. "You know this isn't worth it, Red." Kit gritted her teeth. "Yes?" She asked, hating herself for it. "Say you're sorry. We've almost begun dinner." I'm sorry? I'm sorry? Kit's teeth grated at the words before they could even touch her tongue. But her stomach clenched. "I'm sorry," she hissed through her teeth. And then the cripple's voice was there. "That don't sound sincere at all," he laughed, and Kit could hear the sneer in his voice. "What's your name slave girl? What's your name?" "Red," Kit spat, like a curse. "More." "My name is Red." Kit said, and the word was like a knife through through her gut. "Good girl." He said, like she was a dog who'd learned a neat new trick. "Jet? Don't come to her till morning, and let her out if she begs." Kit turned toward the door, her eyes wide. Kit held up a hand, ready to begin pounding on the door again. She forced her hand to uncurl and slumped against the wall. Where had her life gone all wrong?

[Kit Rowan]

Kit pulled up her sleeve and stared at Ionu's mark to her. It was so beautiful. A blue inverted triangle. Their sign, their endorsement. In Alvadas, beauty had another name; illusion. Kit had spent her life in worship of it, in awe of the strange colors of the sky and the way the world pitched and shifted when she wasn't looking. Kit ached for better illusions than bare skin. Ionu's purpose was so much more than hiding what was strange behind mundanity. Illusion was meant to highlight the world, to make it more beautiful than it would have ever been without. The Inverted wandered the world, spreading illusion far and wide, performing where everyone could see the glory of Ionu's works. She had leaned for so long on this side of her god, and now she could not share it for risk of her captors denying what little advantage she still had left. She borrowed the flashing colors and wove them into her hand till it flashed and flared like fire with unreflecting light. Kit saw the fire in her fingers and smiled. It wasn't the same as sharing Ionu's gift, but it was something to see it again for herself. Ionu was, Kit reminded herself, the illusionist; but he was also the mischief-maker, the trickster. If Kit still had their gift then perhaps she was not beyond reproach. Ravok could take her name, take her things, take her everything. But none of them had the power to take Ionu's grace. Though she had not eaten that day, she smiled at her glamoured palm. The gift of illusion would be enough. Through it, she could forge again her freedom, in a way that would Ionu proud. Kit nestled in the closet and tried to find some little peace in that.

[Verilian]

. . Thread Award . . Kit Rowan +1 Observation +1 Meditation You Question My Logic? : There really wasn't too much I could award here, but if you feel I missed anything, feel free to PM me. Lores: Examined like a Piece of Meat, A New Home, Name: Red, The Rules of Slavery, Notes: A very good thread, I enjoyed it a lot. I can't wait to see more. Keep it up, keep writing! Notice As per the request of the Founders, threads cannot be graded unless your CS is up to date. This means you need to add threads to your thread list when you make new threads, keep your skills up to date, ledger, living expenses, ect. If you aren't up to date, you'll get a PM from me before i grade your thread. If you are up to date, disregard this notice.