Captivity's Rewards

[Victor Lark]

74 Summer 508

They had done her up nicely. Her soft white hair was folded in the season’s fashion, her slender body wrapped in a loose gown that fell from her shoulders like liquid turquoise. Matching stones clung like a collar to her neck, but her virgin ears had been left bare, for now. Skilled slaves had painted her face, covered her scales and deemphasized her more alien features. The color on her eyes was left intentionally light, for all new slaves ran the risk of ruining their image with tears.

Despite the façade of elegance they had prepared for her, there was no ignoring the irons that gripped her wrists and ankles. They were heavy on her bare skin, which bled through the blisters despite the thorough cleaning she had received just prior. She had not been trained, yet. She could not be trusted with pleasure.

Weighted by her chains, the new Konti was ushered into a large office. A floor-length window gave ample view of the docks from three stories up, framed by fine oak bookshelves and their leather-bound tomes. A few plush chairs stood around a table in one corner, and the other was occupied by a large desk and the man who owned it. He stood as she entered, dismissing the men who held her by the arms. The room was left to the pair of them—forgiving the presence of a young blonde girl who stood behind the desk, contemplating a bowl of pistachios.

He had guards at the door: paid men, not slaves, men who could catch her without breaking her, should she try to escape. She stole a look at her as the door opened and closed. “Look at the lake,” he said. The water shone like sapphires beyond his shoulder, beyond the wooden docks and busy workmen below. It was a beautiful view, one that few had risen so high to appreciate. Expecting that her eyes would obey, he clasped his hands behind his back and circled her.

“What is your name?” He asked, even though he already knew. The leather of his shoes tapped softly against the wooden floor. “What are your talents?”

He completed the circle, standing between the girl and her view of the lake. His arms fell noiselessly to his sides and he peered at her with cold grey eyes, apparently deep in thought. He was well-dressed, far better than the men that had captured her, or traded her, or brought her up so many steep steps. “Look at me,” he commanded, interrupting any attempt to reply. “You may speak.”

[Lynnea Timandre]

The dress hurt almost as much as the chains did. The soft gossamer threads were soft and comforting against her chafed skin, true enough, but the pain they gave Lynnea was of a more emotional kind. The exquisite stitching, complemented by jewels and done-up hair, brought to her memories of the life she had been wrenched from, the touch of Mura stone and caress of Mura wind. But it was not Mura she was in now, and the dress was a cruel pretense that didn't give her the one thing she wanted: to return home. And thus it hurt. They had roused her early that morning, earlier than usual. The men had dragged her from her small chamber, which she shared with six days. If it had been a week ago, the time she had arrived in this wretched hellhole, she might have fought them. But now, she was tired. Oh so tired. She wasn't able to put up any fight. This place was new to Lynnea. It was nicer, more adorned than the parts of the city she had seen thus far; yet another cruel reminder of Mura. She had stared dully at the slaves that had done her hair and dressed her, sluggish and slow to respond. When she had been ushered into the office, however, some faint feeling had broken through the dampening exhaustion - what was happening here? She stood still, utterly still in the office. She kept her eyes on the ground, not looking at the men who stood behind her nor at the men that addressed her. She barely so much as glanced at the lake he pointed out, returning to the carpet in but a moment. Despite her self-imposed stillness, a tremble escaped her as the man began to circle her. She remained silent as he spoke, not daring to say a word. When he asked her name, she was silent. When he asked of her talents, he was silent. It was only when he commanded her to look at him did she display any life whatsoever. "My name is Lynnea." she whispered, looking him in the eyes for the first time. Then she closed them shut, as if she didn't like what she had seen. "And I am worthless. I have no talent."

[Victor Lark]

“You do, Lynnea,” he asserted. “Look at me.”

Her eyes were beautiful, that was true; it soothed a person to be seen by them, but that was not the reason he insisted. He had made a command, and it was disobedience to do anything else. He stared at her until she did as she was told, even if it took a hand on her chin to make her. Only then did he turn his gaze elsewhere, at the indistinguishable distance, taunting. “Cleaning, serving...” He turned his back to her for a moment, a gesture of trust or maybe a dare, then spun on his heel and glanced at the other girl, in the corner. “Posing. They are not difficult things to learn. You may be taught that, in time.”

She was not the first of her race to be brought here, and she would not be the last. Nonetheless, she was a rare commodity. That week of dirt and darkness was the first stage in her training: a tired mind is a passive one, after all, and malleable. Compliant. Vernon smiled.

“Do not be afraid, child,” he mentioned, more reasonable than compassionate. He stepped close to her, towered over her even though they were nearly the same height. There he stole her right hand from where it hung, and the chains that bound her sang. With a few harsh sweeps, he removed the bandage that had been wrapped around it. Exposed was the brand that had been burned into her less than five days ago: instead of a black semicircle, half of the traditional disc was filled with the shape of a thick down feather, an ironic testament to the family’s namesake and the luxury granted to the souls they owned.

“You will not go back to that place. I will make sure of it.” As he scrutinized the quality of the brand’s healing, there was no mistaking the indifference in his voice. “My wife will enjoy dressing you up, and my sons might think you pretty.” Neither did he disguise his distain; there were no consequences in a slave’s ears. He sighed, tracing his thumb gently over the risen flesh on the top of her hand.

“But you are from across the sea. You have a talent. You all do. Tell me yours.” His thumb pressed against the blister. As long as she waited to answer, he would increase the pressure on her young wound. “You may speak.”

[Lynnea Timandre]

After a beat of silence, Lynnea lifted her head to stare into the eyes of the man that had enslaved her. Clear blue sapphires shone from beneath the grime that caked her face. She simply looked for a moment, not saying a word; and then a lip quivered and the frozen moment in time was lost. She accepted the tasks that he outlined for her without comment. She had cleaned, she had served, several times beforehand. But not too many times, only several times in the Spelltower Timandre when she had broken the rules. And posing itself was beyond her... ...She tensed again when he seized her arm, gulping down the instinct to wrench it out of his grip. Was it just her, or did she stop herself too late, and did her arm begin to pull away from the man? The look in her eyes clearly signaled she didn't hope that was the case. The slaver didn't seem to notice. He peeled the bandage from the skin of her hand. She didn't make a single move, even as the nerves of her signed hand screamed and the burn was revealed. She didn't pay attention to the words, but what he was doing to her hand, running his thumb over the ridges and plateaus of her palm. She watched him, seemingly mesmerized by the motion of his fingers, until one single word wrenched her gaze skyward. "Talent..." she hissed under her breath, eyes firmly shut. Slowly, surely, she began to move her head side to side. "I do not-" the words were torn from her lips as the man began applying pressure to her brand, settling the nerves aflame once more. She kept her mouth clamped shut, but the pressure increased... In a few moments, Lynnea felt tears spring to her eyes, and words were jumbling out of her mouth before she could stop them. "I can see the magic inside of others." the sentence, approaching a scream, filled the room in which Lynnea, the man, and the other word stood. "I...I can tell which magics they use by touching them." she finished, bitterly. And then, without thinking, she added; "Happy?"

[Victor Lark]

As he waited for her to understand, his eyes told her she was daft, and that he could only expect as much from someone like her. Her minor retaliation earned a frustrated sigh, but at least he lifted his grip from her brand.

“Not at all.”

In a single movement, Vernon dropped the hand that gripped her and raised the other against her face. The crack of the impact made the other slave girl flinch, but lucky for her she was invisible to Vernon’s project. The diamond on is ring finger left a hot red mark on Lynnea’s cheekbone.

“Don’t be bold, Lynnea,” he advised. “It doesn’t suit you.”

In the next moment, he was lifting a tender thumb to inspect the new wound on her face. “But I supposed you’re right,” he said, and the sudden acquiescence seemed almost like a compliment. “It is a useless talent, for a slave. I might have replaced Brianne, here, if your magic could be worth anything around the office. No matter. You donnot need a special gift to entertain my family.”

Vernon cupped her jaw with the hand that had assaulted her and gripped her pale, thin fingers with his other. He hoped the contact would be sufficient to activate her power, but he was glad to have her think his intentions were less innocent. “You do, however, need to be truthful. How about a test?” He frowned. “WIf you can really sense magic, tell me mine. If you cannot, I will be forced to send you elsewhere, for further obedience training. Tell me correctly, and I will introduce you to my wife.”

[Lynnea Timandre]

She deserved that slap, Lynnea knew. It had been a painfully bad move to talk back to the master's very own face; a mistake, and one that might cost her dearly. But she wouldn't make it again. Lynnea wasn't in the habit of repeating mistakes. A curiously empty expression slid over Lynnea's face. The mark the diamond had made burned fiercely on her cheekbone, but she paid no attention to it. "I'm sorry, milord." she said, tone neutral. "I promise I won't ever be bold again." As far as you know. She did not so much as move when the man gripped her, though a desperate gleam shaded the blue of her eyes. The djed tingled below her skin, but did not activate; Lynnea needed closer contact for that. Her eyes flickered once more across his face, but then dropped like it had done so before. She did not speak, merely raised the hand in which their fingers were enjoined. She gripped them with a passion, waiting for the red-hot roiling of magic in her veins to activate. When it began to flood her she closed her eyes and waited for the necessary information to come forth. But there was nothing. Nothing at all. Her eyes fluttered open. "You are no mage," she muttered.

[Victor Lark]

OOCIt's so long, I know. I wanted to give you your Victor cameo, as well as a ton of options. Use any or all of this and do what you want with it. Pick your own adventure!

He smiled. “You are correct. I think it is time you met my family.”

A carriage took them there, rocking them on cobblestone roads in unbroken silence. He did not speak a word to her after that, but he did have her iron shackles exchanged for golden ones: lighter, softer, but no less symbolic. The large estate seemed to be on the other side of the city, but they reached it soon enough. A thin maid, with a face that might have been beautiful decades ago, dutifully answered the door. “I will tell you their names,” he muttered to her as they stepped across the threshold, his hand leading her by the small of her back. “And you will remember them.”

He spoke up as he gestured to the woman at the door. “Olivia.” As she nodded, a pretty young girl passed quickly in front of them with a plate of wet olives in her hands. “Ines.” She stopped so suddenly that her carefully prepared curls drifted in front of her face, but she skillfully scooped the plate so that none of its contents fell. He gestured to the Konti as he said, “Lynnea.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” she squeaked, balancing the large plate artfully in one hand so that she could offer the other to her fellow slave. Her brand was well healed, but her skin was otherwise soft. If the Konti lifted her own hand to accept the greeting, it would be discreetly filled with a tiny scrap of paper before it dropped again. Indifferent to the exchange, the slave opened the door to her destination, the dining room, and waited for them to enter.

Vernon stood in the large doorway as he presented the new slave to the four women who sat there. There was a teenage girl, frowning at her embroidery; a much older woman who looked to be her mother, with curling auburn hair; and two taller women who looked more like Vernon, one with a straight back and cold eyes, the other crafting a dark grin over interrupted lips. “Hello ladies,” he said. “I hope you donnot mind the interruption. I would like to introduce you to the Konti girl I was telling you about. Lynnea, this is Emille, my daughter, and Abigail, my wife. These are my sisters, Yvette and Alessa.”

“You’re delaying our brunch, Vernon.” Alessa responded. “Would you please?”

He bowed out and allowed Ines to do her job, leading Lynnea toward the end of the hall. In the sitting room, a fifteen-year-old boy was reclining on a chaise and reading a book. He started to stand when he saw Lynnea, but slumped back into his seat when his eyes dropped to her wrists. “My son, Tristan,” Vernon Lark said, and was about to exit the room when two other boys of similar age fell through the open window. One was slightly older than Tristan and one was a little younger, but there was no real way of telling. “My eldest son, Vernon, and my nephew, Victor.”

Victor bowed sardonically, but Vernon Jr. would have none of it. “Darian is on the roof again,” he said angrily.

To which his cousin added, “Brave enough to go up but not enough to come down.” He did not pause for breath before he stepped to Lynnea and added, “And what is your name? Would you like to meet me upstairs, in an hour or so?”

Vernon Sr.’s voice was as stern as it had been in his office, when he caught Victor’s hand from where it attempted to touch the slave’s face. “Get my son on the ground, unharmed, or I’ll disinherit you. Don’t think I won’t.”

“Yessir,” Victor replied with rolling eyes and made for the window again, but not without leaving a wink for the strange, pale girl in golden chains.

Her new master’s footsteps were louder and more deliberate as he finally ushered her to the kitchen door. “Start here. See if you can’t make yourself useful. I have some business to attend to; I will find you later. I expect you to be on your best behavior, understand?”

He did not wait for her to respond. In the next instant, he was moving up the stairs with urgency in his steps, and was soon out of sight. No one could see her except for the cooks and cleaners in the kitchen, who were too busy to look for long. If she dared to glance at the paper in her hand, she would read,

If you want your freedom, talk to Robert at the stables.

“Hey you, girl,” called a voice from the kitchen, irritated and urgent. “Take these to dining room, would you?”

[Lynnea Timandre]

The trip to the Lark family house was a kaleidoscope of conflicting sights, smells, and other sundry sensations; none of which Lynnea was particularly interested in. She did make an attempt to memorize the path the carriage took, if she had to retrace her steps to the docks, but the effort was lackluster at best. Halfway though the trip she wound up not knowing where they were, and she retired then. The golden shackles that were affixed on her wrists were given a twitch of the brow, but any words that might have been drawn forth beforehand did not come now. The house was likewise examined and discarded; only when Vernon spoke to her did her attention focus in. "I will." she murmured back, but he was already turning away now. He spoke to the maid who answered the door, and then a slave passing by. Lynnea was trying so hard to remember the names - Ines, Olivia, Ines, Olivia - that she didn't realize that her handshake had been filled with more than Olivia's hand until after the slave girl had sashayed away. For a second, it simply held the scrap of paper, wavering slightly, and then it squeezed shut over it. A chaste smile was plastered to her face as she followed the master into the living room, bruised blues flickering from each woman to the next. She did the same with the teenage boys she was displayed to, save one - the boy who reached for his face. For him, a tilt of the head and a directed glance said what she was forbidden to say. One might have seen it as a look of loathing; another might have seen it as pity. Either way, it was scarcely the answer Victor was looking for. When Vernon left her at the kitchen door, for a moment desperation made her pause. She was like a ship without it's master, left to drift, empty, purposeless. Lynnea had no idea what to do. But then, she cast a glance at the paper covered in her hand, and purpose once again found her. A carefully constructed and servile countenance answered the chef's call. "Of course, milord." she answered, sweeping in to come closer and accept the goods he needed her to take. "Before I go, though," she said in a seductively low voice, to draw him in; "Would you please tell me how to get to the stables? My master needs me to deliver something to the men there." After that, she would take the items to the dining room and from there, hopefully, the stables.

[Victor Lark]

He stopped before he answered, letting the soup he had been preparing drip idly from his spoon as he considered her question. The pause lasted less than a breathtaking second. Finally, he said, “Out the door, take the hall on the left to the very end, turn left, door on the right leads to the yard. Bob’s got the horses on the other side of it. Can’t miss the stink. Now take this.”

With the same spoon, he gestured at a large plate that was nearly half as wide as she was tall, crowned with four smaller bowls filled with the same soup. The beet red liquid steamed the rich scents of onions and bay leaves, crowned with a dollop of cream and a pinch of rosemary. A pitcher of clear, cool water sat between them, framed by four empty glasses. Even without her chains on, it would be far too much to carry alone; the girl that stood beside it seemed to have learned as much, and was embarrassed by how easy it had been to summon someone to help. She nodded her thanks to the cook and silently took one side of the large plate, asking silently that Lynnea do the same.

She had not cared to speak her name. How important were they, really, in a place like this?

Together they waddled to the next room, where Olivia was ready to open the door for them again. As soon as the ladies’ lunch was set on the narrow dining room table, the other girl took to pouring drinks and distributing bowls. Whether or not Lynnea bothered to mimic her, Alessa Lark would soon stop her.

“Yvette, darling,” she said to her sister, without taking her eyes from the Konti. “Won’t you sit over here, so our brother’s wife and I can inspect his latest project? Come child.” She waved to Lynnea. “Sit here. Let me take a look at you.”

Lynnea stood close enough to her nameless counterpart to hear her shiver. The poor girl minced out of the room and Olivia met her eyes with unsmiling knowledge before she closed the door again. All four women stared at the remaining slave from over their bowls. Emille sipped a little too loudly, and Abigail shot her a disapproving look. Yvette folded her arms while Alessa curled her long fingers around the chair’s embellished back. “I’m thinking of Tristan, my dear,” she was saying to her sister-in-law. “The boy is old enough to have had a few lessons, and this one is far too pretty to turn down. Don’t you think?”

Abigail scrutinized the girl, lingering on her breasts and hips. “How are your bed skills, Lynnea?”

[Lynnea Timandre]

Lynnea felt a shiver travel the length of her back as the woman spoke about her in dispassionate tones, talking as though about a hunk of meat rather than a living being. Her pale hands, gripping the edges of the embroidered chair on which she sat, tightened; likewise, so did her face. Pale blue eyes flickered between the nameless Lark women, fear barely concealed in them. “I...” Lynnea broke off, than started again. “I have little to no skill in bed.” her voice broke ever so slightly. “I come from a land populated only by women, and as such am not too skilled in the male – male body.” That was partially untrue. While what she had said about Mura being populated by women was indeed fact, that detail alone had attracted men in hordes to the fair island. Lynnea had caught the eye of more than a few travelers in her time, and was indeed known as a bit of a maverick amongst the Timandre family when it came to that regard. But the Ravokians couldn't know that. They couldn't possibly know that. “I'm sorry, madams,” she gave it one last try, bowing her head respectfully to each woman, “But I would hardly be helpful in teaching your son these type of matters.” There was a pause in which her chaste eyes rose higher, trying to discern the reactions of the various personages across the dining room. The konti maiden's eyes settled on Alessa in particular. After a moment, Lynnea spoke again. “Master Lark,” she began, obviously meaning Vernon. “has also given me some other tasks that need to be accomplished forthwith. So, if you would excuse me...”