Flashback Gift of Ruination (Maddoch)

[Verena Lorak]

Gift of Ruination
67th of Winter, 510 A.V.

Yvenna straightened her daughter’s dress for the hundredth time, even though they both knew there was nothing wrong with it. Despite her tough exterior acting as the head guard of the Whitesnake Plantation, Yvenna had always been surprisingly lady-like when she was dealing with her only daughter. “The dress looks good on you. It looks amazing, doesn’t it?”

Silently, Verena could only nod at her mother’s question as she gazed at her reflection in the mirror. Her face was painted to near perfection – a better version of herself. They made her eyes look more dramatic and at the same time making her violet irises seem to glow. Her lips were now a shade of brighter red. Meanwhile, her dark hair was pulled into a delicate updo with curled loose strands framing her face. The dress Yvenna had given her was indeed beautiful in its dark blue-green shade and it was simple, just like Verena asked. Though, the amount of skin it showed was a bit too much for her taste. She supposed it was to draw attention to the Healing mark of Rak’keli drawn beneath her collarbones. Besides, her mother was so insistent for her two wear it and threatened to stop her lessons with Uncle Doromer if she refused.

Really, Verena could not understand why a simple thing like a birthday needed to be celebrated in such a lavish way. Especially considering that everyone in her family was well aware of her reluctance in attending parties. However, a part of did have a suspicion as to why. She might be indifferent, but she was no fool. Today, she was turning seventeen, yet she still have no possible suitors. Verena had heard her family’s concern regarding the matter. They wanted to parade her around in front of the other families to arrange a betrothal.

“I forgot to tell you,” Yvenna exclaimed suddenly, making Verena turn on her heels. Even after siring two children, the former Syliran still looked surprisingly young and beautiful. Zorane had always been the one to resemble their mother with his blonde hair, while his younger sister took from the father she could barely remember. “A boy, Caedmon Paille, came earlier today looking for you.”

“What did he say?” the girl asked far too quickly. She must have seen because of all the pampering she had to went through. The first time she met him was exactly a year from today and ever since, Caedmon had been one of the few persons that could actually tolerate her.

A smile started to grow on her mother’s face. “He just said that you should look for him in the party.” Yvenna slipped a loose strand of her daughter’s hair behind her ear and saw the glint in her eyes. “The servants have been saying that you spend an awful lot of time with a Paille. Is that him?”

“Yes.” Though Verena did not tell anyone – even her brother – about her newly formed friendship with Caedmon, she supposed it wasn’t surprising that the servants gossiped till the word reached her own mother.

“Do you like him?”

The dark-haired girl considered it for a moment. “What do you mean?”

“Do you enjoy spending time with him? Talking to him? Does it feel like everything was right when you are with him?”
“Yes.” A part of her couldn’t quite answer the question. Being close to the Paille confused her and she seemed to forget about everything else when she saw him.

“Do you want to marry him?”

“No,” Verena replied simply. She glanced down and focused on the small ring wrapped around her little finger. For some reason, the Lorak could not make herself take it off ever since it was given to her.

Her mother’s eyes widened. “Why not?”

“Marriage will hinder me, mother. I do not want to spend the rest of my life caring for a family I am not ready for.” The idea of being cooped up in Whitesnake had always bothered her. Verena had never even set foot outside Kenash. She could not waste away in this city for the rest of her life.

“I see. I suppose I understand. After, I also wanted to travel when I was young – which was how I ended here.”

For hundreds of times, Verena had heard of her mother’s tale about how she was on a patrol down the Kabrin Road when she met Calamur Lorak whose carriage was broken after an attack by bandits. “Then, why did you marry so young? It is foolish and now you are stuck here.”

The knight just smiled and pressed her lips on Verena’s forehead. She couldn’t even be angry at her daughter’s blunt words. “Perhaps, but I got you and Zorane out of it. That is something I will never regret.”

The silence stretched between the two, both having nothing to say. Yvenna continued to fuss with the younger Lorak’s appearance, while Verena let her mind wander until her mother was satisfied. The whole time, she wondered where Caedmon was, wondering if he was already downstairs waiting for her.

“You seem upset again, sweetheart. You have been like this the whole day,” Yvenna commented as they left Verena’s chambers, placing a gentle hand on her daughter’s arm. “Even more so than usual.”

Verena turned her gaze out the window and at the dark swamps. She imagined the shadows growing and reaching out to devour her. For once, the Lorak was glad of the noises and festivities coming from the rooms below. It was a silly paranoia, but she couldn’t shake the image away. “I have an uneasy feeling tonight. Like something bad is going to happen.”

[Achenar]

The stars in the inky black sky swayed like the carriage he rode in.

They twinkled like eyes in the night; curious eyes, like those that judged him in his reinforced leather collar, and the leash that bound him to the Radacke’s side. The ethaefal’s head was pounding, and his vision swirled like the rivers that ran rampant through the city proper. Dressed in only a loose pair of linen pants and leather shoes, a slave had not the luxury to be donned in lace and silk, but the cool winter breeze was fortunately not an issue when the warmth of the liquor his Master had fed him saturated his chest.

The dynast’s coal-black gaze lingered on his inebriated slave. “You’re wondering where we’re off to,” he said matter-of-factly. Zaelsen Radacke never asked genuine questions to his pet. He fancied himself the controller of thoughts, and rarely spoke to them in a manner that allowed them an illusion of autonomy, except for when such games were needed for his own amusement.

Achenar, in his attempts to keep himself from tipping from the carriages’ rocky procession, nodded.

“Mm, it’s a very special party, Achenar,” the ebon-haired dynast informed him, sitting back. He fingered the bottle of wine in his hands. “A birthday party. I know you’ve been to plenty of those, but this one, pet… well, I think you’ll quite like this one.” There was a wicked smile on the dynast’s lips and though Achenar blinked slowly and shook his head in an effort to sober himself, he could not discern the meaning behind that smile. There was always a reason for the things Zaelsen did. Everything was a game. And everybody lies.

“Who… Whose… birthday—“ The ethaefal stumbled for the words.

“Shh,” Zaelsen lifted a finger up and extended the bottle of wine. “Drink.”

----------------

The walk to the Whitesnake plantation’s doors was an effort in balance, made far more difficult by the occasional tug of the leash when he lingered too far behind his Master. A cacophony of voices drifted out of the windows and doors, but in his delicate state, the ethaefal could hardly distinguish the words. The lights filtered through the glass and framed the doors as they walked through, and where the world outside had been relatively cool and crisp with heavy breezes, the household felt like a blacksmith’s forge.

Zaelsen Radacke, in his black and red ensemble, strolled through the throng of gossiping dynasts with his ethaefal in tow. Slaves hurried between them with trays laden with snacks and drinks. Achenar heard his Master say something to someone he could hardly focus on. His steps had to be calculated, and his body felt like it was on fire.

Suddenly, a gloved hand gripped his chin and turned his head until he was looking into the eyes of the slave master. Something glimmered in that dark gaze. “This is the Lorak’s estate, Achenar,” Zaelsen explained slowly, his voice like a lilting whisper that drowned every other noise out. “There’s a girl who’s just dying to see you again. You’ll remember.” There was a flash in his vision: dark hair, a lovely, porcelain face, and eyes like amethyst. It quickly dissipated as Zaelsen leaned, nipping his slaves’ ear. “You’re going to give her a special sort of present today, pet. I heard she likes it particularly rough.” The ethaefal could feel his smile, and the way the word entangled his thoughts like a whip. There was almost an indescribable instinctual urge growing in the pit of his stomach.

Zaelsen released his grip on his slave’s chin and unhooked the leash from his collar. “Go on then, boy, socialize.” With an unceremonious shove, he was pushed into the room, where the walls spun and the voices pounded into his head. He could feel eyes on him, hands on him, stroking his glassy horns and his glimmering opalescent flesh. He was a freak show.

When he’d stumbled through the prying hands, the ethaefal found purchase against the wall, his breathing becoming heavier, more ragged. Something had been altered in him, but the ethaefal couldn’t fight it. All he wanted was the release.

[Verena Lorak]

“Don’t forget to smile, sweetheart,” Yvenna reprimanded as the glide down the stairs. “You are beautiful already, but a smile would make you irresistible.”

“That’s not true,” she noted plainly as she unconsciously touched each of her finger to her thumb. It was a habit she had mostly broken, except for moments she felt particularly anxious. By the time they reached the bottom of the stairs, the Lorak’s head was already pounding from the sea of bright colors and loud voices trying to speak over the music. At least the lights in the room were darkened.

With a smile, the widow cupped her daughter’s face with a calloused hand. “You are right. You are already stunning as you are.”

The decorations in the room were a whirlwind of blue and green, clearly made to match her dress. Most of the rooms in the first floor had been transformed into a wonderland. Trees were brought in where lights snaked across its trunks and branches. It wasn’t as lavish as most of her family’s typical party, but even so, the whole thing still seemed excessive.

Relief swept through her like a wave when Zorane came to her side. Her brother’s presence always grounded her and helped her socialization go more smoothly. He stood by her side as Lorana, the head of their family and her half-sister, started her speech about Verena. As a true Vantha, Verena could hear Lorana weaving words and stories about her. She tuned most of it out.

Once she was finished, Zorane and Verena left to mingle with the crowd. She would have to constantly remind herself to smile, to thank every little compliment thrown her way. When Verena’s patience ran thin and she told a Sitai girl that it was stupid to think with her intelligent to aspire to be mathematician, it was enough sign for her brother to take her away from the people.

Even though Zorane apologized profusely, he let out a laugh when they were far enough. “Ah, how I wish I can be as blunt as you do, sister.”

As they walked, her ears caught snatches of conversations.

“One of the Radackes had brought his ethaefal into the party.”
“Really? What a show off!”
“Well, if you were him, you would’ve done the same thing. Ethaefals are hard to come by and pleasant to look at.”

Her head snapped when her mind connected the word Radacke and ethaefal. A face started to form in her head - an unearthly, handsome face decorated with horns. Was it Achenar? What are the chances that the Radacke had another ethaefal slave? The Radacke’s main trade was slavery, so it shouldn’t be surprising thay they possess the more exotic slaves.

Zorane shook his head as he steered her over to the refreshment table. “Everyone had been talking about this ethaefal. I can’t blame them. We don’t see much of them anywhere.” At his sister’s disinterest, he shoved her playfully with his arm. “I thought you’d be more interested, with your ambition to learn every race’s anatomy.”

“I have seen one,” Verena replied dismissively as she picked up a glass of wine and offered it to him, while she grabbed a glass of water for herself.

“Really? You did not tell me about it.” Usually when the young healer learned something new, she would return to Zorane ranting about her discovery for half a bell at a time. But her real first encounter with an ethaefal wasn’t exactly something she wanted to retell. ”Look, there he is.”

Even amongst the glittery dresses, it was not difficult to spot the ethaefal everyone was talking about. Usually, her gaze would easily overlook the slave, but this time her mind flickered with recognition. After treating someone for bells, knowing every curve of her patient’s figure, Verena immediately recognized the ethaefal she had treated not too long ago.

What in the world was he doing here? was the first thought that occured to her.

When she turned back to her brother, Zorane was already being swept away by his most recent subject of affection - Viana Askara, if she remembered correctly. He gave her an apologetic smile before getting swallowed by the crowd.

Suddenly, Verena felt uncomfortably lonely standing in the center of the room.

Fortunately enough, she noticed Caedmon standing on the other side of the room. He was laughing with a group of people, being the center of attention. As if sensing her gaze, the Paille turned and shot her a familiar smirk. Perhaps that was why Verena could not help but like him. The fact that despite his obvious ease with other people, he still chose to spend time with her. He returned his face to the crowd, but Verena could see the hand behind his back gesturing for her to come.

The young woman glanced back at the slave who was now pushing his way through the crowd.

With a sigh, Verena made her way through the crowd and headed towards the ethaefal. Caedmon could wait a little longer, while from the looks of it, Achenar wasn’t feeling well. She could not help but feel worried for him. Then again, it was probably because he was one of the worst patients she had ever encountered. The first of many.

Much to her dismay, people kept stopping her, wanting to shake her hand, and kept asking about the glowing mark on her chest. Without much finesse, Verena simply smiled and insisted that she had somewhere to go. Needless to say, it took a while until Verena reached him.

“Achenar,” Verena called out, deciding to stand in front of him. A few heads turned, but they simply dismissed it as the Lorak’s curiosity of the exotic creature - the same interest as everyone else’s. “Are you sick?”

[Achenar]

The throbbing, inescapable pounding pushed against his eyeballs. He had to squeeze his eyes shut, pressing his palm to his forehead in some vain attempt to alleviate the dizzying hunger that clawed at his gut. The voices all around him felt like a maddening cacophony, and he tried desperately to block it out. But he couldn’t. The light, though dim, felt like the sun was blaring in his eyes, and he shielded his vision with an upraised arm.

Achenar.

He shook his head and his lips were parted as he exhaled. Half naked and exposed, he couldn’t stop the probing hands that reached for his flesh, and in a stirring fit of primal anger, he lashed out with an arm, nearly striking the very woman who had called his name in worry.

He blinked and brought his arm back down, having to adjust his nearly blurred vision to focus on the violet-eyed girl whose face was naggingly familiar. But he didn’t say her name, he found he could hardly form proper words. He wanted to growl, and slam her into the wall, but he refrained from doing so.

The ethaefal inhaled and moved his head in a half nod and half shake. “My… head, it’s pounding,” he forced out, swallowing hard.

Take her.

The insidious whispers clawed at his thoughts. The ethaefal shook his head and glanced across the sea of people, both dynasts and slaves, searching for that familiar face he knew would be watching. But Zaelsen was nowhere to be seen.

He sees…. He’s always there… The paranoia struck him acutely, and he looked back at Verena, using what strength he could muster to stand straight and appear more stable than he was. Internally, it was a war between the primal suggestions and the voice of reason that was quickly becoming a backdrop to his inebriated brooding. He knew something felt wrong, but in this state, he couldn’t articulate the words that fluttered in his mind.

[Verena Lorak]

Verena eyed the slave warily when she reeled back quick enough to just miss his arm. His whole mannerism was disturbing and bordering on violent. Something was definitely wrong.

The way he flinched away from the crowd at least gave her a hint as how to help him ease his headache. She was reminded of herself, actually – the way loud noises drown out her own thoughts and threaten to send her panicking. She was tempted to reach out and touch his head to see if he was feverish, but changed her mind.

She had to get him out the crowd for a while. It worked for her before, making her head clearer with the interruptions gone. Verena considered taking his hand and leading him, but when he straightened, she figured he could manage on his on. “Follow me.” Besides, the young woman had seen enough patients to know one that was on the edge of violence and she worried that her touch might trigger it.

Carefully, Verena made her way through the crowd, towards the stairs that would lead to the basement – the only place she could think of that would allow them some peace. The young woman would pause once in a while, making sure Achenar was following her.

Much to her fortune, the lights of the room suddenly dimmed as dancers carrying some sort of light in their hands started pouring in from the family room into the main room. Verena faintly recalled her mother talking about a series of performances for her party. She did not know exactly what it was, but it made most of her guests head turn away in awe.

Making sure no one was paying any particular attention to her, Verena glided down the stairs that led to a door. She left the door open in her wake so that the slave knew she was inside. The basement was lit by dying lanterns, probably because all of the slaves and the servants that usually stayed here was upstair, busy with her party.

When Verena hear Achenar following her down, she would say, “Close the door behind you.”

Once the door closed, the silence falling around them was thick, like they were cut off from the rest of the world. This was something she only first noticed a few years back, that the estate’s basement was soundproofed. It seemed unnecessary considering that the basement for the slaves and servants’ quarters, an infirmary, and a few locked rooms that they say serve as storage. When Verena finally asked, no one seemed eager to answer her, always referring to someone else for her to ask. In the end, it was Uncle Doromer that told her the truth about what was hidden underneath her home.

The basement was created as a space for her family to study how the mortal body works more thoroughly. Slaves were experimented in torturous ways in order for them to gain knowledge. This is how we stay ahead of everyone in Kenash, her uncle explained. He refused to tell her the gory details, but the very need of a soundproofed room explained much to the young Lorak.

Her unease suddenly swelled inside her chest, sending prickly feelings down her spine. Thinking about the horrors of her family’s past was not the best thing to think of. Quickening her steps, Verena refused to look at the locked rooms and headed straight into the small infirmary. This place was always well-stocked with herbs and medicines for any sort of occasion, so she could get something for Achenar.

She weaved through the cots with an obvious familiarity, heading toward the cupboards and shelves on the other end of the room. “You can rest on the cot. I will make some tea to ease your headache,” Verena said over her shoulder as she pulled out a glass and some jars, setting it on the table in front of her. “How long have you been experiencing the headache?”

[Achenar]

He could see the unease in her eyes; in the way she kept her distance. He didn't blame her. The ethaefal hardly trusted himself, not when his master still held his leash so strongly, despite his lack of a presence. Zaelsen Radacke was a weaver of lies and a manipulator of thoughts. His insidious touch still toyed with his emotions like a skilled conductor. His mistake had been that he cared; his feeling for the girl had inadvertently made her a target. Knowing the lengths with which the Radacke was capable made the ethaefal's stomach turn.

But her voice cut through the pounding headache, and he heard her command. His blurred vision was subsiding enough for him to follow with heavy footsteps, clutching onto the wall to avoid stumbling. Though she moved quicker than he did, he followed by way of her dress, its color a stark contrast to the orange, yellows and whites that donned the women in the crowded room.

By the time the lights dimmed, he had caught up to her, standing beside a staircase that led down, to what could only have been a basement. Head pounding, eyes hazy in a glaze and his body covered in a thin sheen of sweat, the ethaefal couldn't shake off the feeling that he was heading to his doom.

Welcome to the Play Room, Achenar, the insidious voice echoed in his mind like a sweet whisper. Flashes of a dark room reared up in his mind, lined with chains and hooks and decorated with various torture implements. A panic nearly set into his gut as he shook his head, his breathing erratic. "Verena," he said aloud, as if the name was a life vest that kept him afloat. He forced his legs to move, and slowly, he made his way down the stairs, each step increasing his heart beat like a rabbit. Until he stepped through.

There were no chains here, no padded table with manacles, no X-cross or whips or candles. This was no dungeon, but a place set up for slaves. He could see cots, some blankets, meager straw pillows; no sign of a Radacke's mark.

He had enough mind to register the young woman's words and he shut the door behind him, stepping into the room to follow her deeper into the basement. "Why... why are we here?" He managed, watching as she approached the shelves in the far corner. He didn't want to sit down. There was a twitch in his system that urged him to move, and so he did, pacing back and forth like a cornered tiger.

Alone, the whisper crawled up from the dark recesses of his thoughts, Helpless, ripe for the taking.

No. Achenar shook his head.

That is what she wants. That is why she brought you here.

"NO," he slammed his fist into the wall, every inch of his body tense and tight, like he was coiled to spring. It was as though he could feel the walls splinter in his mind. Primal urges were taking hold of his body. He swallowed a hard lump in his throat.

"W-we shouldn't be here, my lady," the slave told her, his voice laced with an underlying growl. "It's n-not safe, not safe..." He lowered his head and closed his eyes, his arms braced against the wall as though he was holding on to dear life.

[Verena Lorak]

Instead of lying down as she told him, Achenar paced behind her. She had hoped that leading him away from the crowd would make him feel better, but his condition was getting worse. His movements were erratic, almost panicky and Verena did not know why.

After she started to heat up a pot of water, the young woman started looking through the herbs that were displayed on one of the shelves. Thanks to Uncle Doromer's greenhouse and Lorana's insistence to have everything perfect, the herbs stored here were constantly restocked, to keep them fresh. It was a waste of resources, if you asked Verena, but Lorana wanted to show off their trade in medicine.

With her fingers trailing across the glass jars, Verena tried to recall the simplest herbs to treat headache. Ginger, she thought as she pulled out a jar of gnarled looking root, and some chamomile should be sufficient. After getting what she needed, the Lorak dropped the ingredients into the pot and waited for it to boil.

Verena nearly jumped at the sound of the slave's fist hitting the wall and glanced back briefly. He yelled out a word. No. "Who are you talking to?" If he had started talking to himself, the healer had all the more reason to worry. Yet, the slave did not look like he was injured or hurt in any way.

Verena took the tea pot and poured the contents into a glass. "Did you consume anything before coming here? Drugs? Alcohols?"

Verena had witnessed enough people who were drunk or entirely high on drugs, to start suspecting it. It would certainly explain Achenar's erratic behavior and violence. He would be unpredictable. And if he was, there was nothing she could until the effects wear out.

Earlier, the Lorak had planned to return to the party immediately, before her absence was noted. But now, she would have to consider the possibility that Achenar might hurt himself if left to his own devices. Besides, she disappeared often enough from parties that everyone hardly looked for her.

Finally done, the healer held the glass in her hand and walked towards the Radacke slave. "It is safe, Achenar," Verena said carefully as she extended her arm to him, offering the simple tincture. Clearly, the ethaefal was not in his right mind, but something was off, something the churning feeling in her stomach was trying to tell her. "No one is going to hurt you here."

[Achenar]

The scent of boiling herbs wafted through the darkened basement and seeped into the wood. If it had had any effect on the slave, he didn’t show it. His eyes were still squeezed shut, his fingers still gripping the wall as though it were the bars to his cage. The muscles in his shoulders were bunched and tense, forming knots under the strain.

But he could hear her breathing, the light whistle of the tea pot. His inhales were sharp and ragged, and a dull roar echoed in his ears. But no matter how hard he tried to focus on the external noise, he could still hear the insidious whispers, the clawing, primal urges that gnawed at his gut. It’s an open invitation, Achenar.

Take it.

“No, no,” his head shook again, as though he was ignoring the young doctor’s questions. The dark passenger was slowly seeping into every crevice of his mind and with it, the shaking abruptly stopped. There was no answer when Verena inquired about his health, and the ethaefal remained still when she approached. He could smell her, even above the scent of tea; the perfume that clung to her like veneer.

A man takes… a slave obeys.

She would never love a slave.

Achenar’s arms dropped from the wall, and his body turned like a marionette to face her. The panic in his eyes had dulled into a hazy glaze and his breathing, albeit erratic, had returned to a calmer pace. He reached a hand up, ignoring the offering of tea, and gently touched the Lorak’s cheek with the back of his fingers. Such an action by a slave would have warranted heavy lashes from his Radacke masters, but he wanted to be more than a mere slave.

He wanted to be a man.

His fingers trailed from her jawline down to her throat, tracing the soft curve of her flesh with his fingertips, like a lover’s caress. And as his fingers clamped tight around her neck, there was only two words the ethaefal muttered with clear, silver eyes: “I’m sorry.”

With a heavy thud, Achenar slammed her against the wall, keeping her pinned by her throat while his other hand tore open the bodice of her dress in mere seconds. His mouth pressed unto hers, forcing a kiss between them that he would never have dared before had Zaelsen’s tampering not pulled at the dark passenger in his heart. He had no control, only the urgings of his primal instincts as it presented itself in the way he dragged his knee between her legs to part them; the way his hand roamed across her chest and dipped into the ruins of her dress to the one part that she’d likely never been touched before.

And somewhere deep in his heart, where he had lost the battle against Zaelsen’s sovereign grip on him, he screamed in internal agony. For Verena. For the pain that he would cause her.

oocObligatory I feel like a jerk after writing this. ):

[Verena Lorak]

Instead of taking the glass, Achenar reached out to touch her face. Never being entirely fond of skin to skin contact, Verena was too surprised to react. The slave's touch was light and gentle and entirely puzzling. He seemed to have snapped out of his stupor, his eyes focusing on her. Too focused.

A question was poised on her lips, but she never had the chance to utter them.

“I'm sorry.”

Verena had always prided herself for her swift mind, the way it could analyze a medical problem, connecting the dots faster than most people could. Or when she could easily spot the flaws in people’s reasoning, coming up with the quickest arguments that usually landed her a disapproving by most of her family members. Needless to say, her brain was supposed to be reliable.

But for once, her mind refused to understand what was happening.

Her head slammed against the wall behind her. It took her a moment later to realize that Achenar was the one to do it, his strong hand nearly choking her. Her grip on the glass loosened and she heard it crash on the floor. The next thing she knew, cold air danced across the skin of her torso, sending a shiver down her spine.

The young woman took in every detail in fragmented pieces refusing to form an entire picture. The pressure of Achenar's harsh kiss. His warm, taut body nearly pressed against her. The cool wood panelling against her back, trapping her. Her heart rate rising, detecting a danger Verena wasn’t ready to notice.

Her head told her to scream, but between the slave’s hand around her throat and his lips on hers, she could not make one sound. A part of her still could not believe what was happening. It made no sense. What was Achenar doing? Did he want to hurt her? Kill her? It made no sense. If he did want to murder her, all the ethaefal needed to do was tighten his grip and it wouldn't take long for her to asphyxiate. Yet, his grip was only enough to stop her from escaping.

Once his hand found her bare skin, Verena recoiled and gasped at the unwelcome sensation, breaking the kiss. All her life, the Lorak had pointedly avoided the sensation of being touched. People had asked her over and over again why, but she could never quite explain to them how even the slightest touch was enough to overwhelm her thoughts. And now, someone was touching her everywhere and dipped dangerously low.

Everything exploded into clarity in a blink. She knew what he wanted from her – something she did not want to give him. Her hands went up to her neck in an effort to pry his hand away. But her delicate fingers was no match for the slave who had spent his life in hardship. When that didn’t work, her nails dug deeply – perhaps even enough to draw blood – into the ethaefal’s shoulder as she tried to keep him away. He did not budge.

Only then that the Lorak realized that she was entirely helpless, completely under Achenar's mercy. It was such a simple thought, an obvious one. But it was enough to trigger something inside of her. For once, she did not care that she might hurt someone else. Nothing else mattered but saving herself. Her logical mind wrestled for control and a single thought dawned inside her head.

Knowing she would regret it later, Verena curled her hand into a fist and slammed it against the slave’s nose, praying that it would be enough for him to release her.

OOCSorry for punching you in the face

[Achenar]

It was as though he was a puppet on a string; a marionette that danced to the tune of the dynast thoroughly enjoying himself in the world of frivolity above. He screamed at himself, internally, as he watched his hands fold over Verena's soft flesh, ripping away at her dress in a frenzy not unlike a ravenous man in the throes of desperation.

He knew this was wrong. He could see it in her eyes; the resistance that pushed against him. A low growl resonated deep in his throat. Why couldn't she just accept him? He was a creature of beauty, his skin, though clammy, still shimmered faintly under the dim light. His glassy horns that swept back from his temple still glimmered like stained glass. He was coveted, he was wanted.

But she didn't want him.

And though in his mind, he fought with himself, the dark passenger, the primal force that fueled his actions couldn't accept this. When she struck him, the kiss broke and a thin stream of blood trickled down his nose. It was a sharp pain, but hadn't been enough to deter his advances, on the contrary, it was fuel for the wildfire, as though she was the prize that had long since eluded him. His hand released her throat and instead reached for her forearm, shoving her to the floor with a brutal push.

"Why don't you want me?" His voice was shaky, pining, as though his internal struggle was made manifest through his words. He shook his head, pacing back and forth like a predator cornering it's prey. "No, no, I will show you, my lady," he pointed at the Lorak, his hand trembling, "I'll show you what you want... that's the only way."

The ethaefal advanced on her and through whatever resistance she threw at him, he wrested control of her arms, pinning them over her head with one hand. The grip he had was vise like, and his lips pressed against the curve of her jaw, trailing kisses and bites all along her throat and shoulder. He couldn't look her in the eye. This was wrong. His mind screamed, over and over into a wall that couldn't break.

Her legs were forcibly parted as he positioned himself between them. One hand fumbled with his pants, his head lowering as he found the curve of her exposed breast with his mouth. In some sick part of him, all he wanted was for her to find pleasure. Pleasure through pain. His master had ironed those words into him since the day he was acquired. This was the only way he knew. His teeth bit down hard on her chest, looking to incite a reaction, as his hips drew dangerously closer between her thighs.