A New Slave Part 1

A Jp with D2wintr and Rosmary

“I don't think you understand,” Sylla said to Orla. “You were sold to us. Draken doesn't belong on that throne and it doesn't matter what that half-breed psychopath says. You are, at this moment, a slave.”

“And a fairly valuable one,” Tiberius remarked.

Sylla nodded in agreement. “There will be no shortage of interested buyers. But given her noble connections we should sell her quickly before Lord Soldor's spies track her here to the camp.”

“Do you have someone in mind?”

“A wealthy foreign customer known to have a weakness for elven women. Someone at this moment who is examining our other merchandise. Can you ask the Zateran to join us, please?”

Tiberius left and in a few moments returned escorting a formidable looking individual. Lucretia Dais was a tall, dusky-skinned sorceress with spiralling black hair touched with gray. Looking to be in her late forties, she was richly attired in a robe of maroon damask embroidered with sturdy gold thread and gold trim. Her long arms were muscular and intricately tattooed with arcane sigils. A heavy emerald necklace of Zataran design hung across her chest, and big gaudy rings glittered upon her strong fingers.

“Lady Dais,” Sylla said respectfully, “I am so glad you have returned to visit us once again. I trust you have found it well worth the trip?”

“No, I haven't,” Lucretia growled in frustration. “To say I am unimpressed with the quality of your goods is an understatement, Drow. Your camp is full to overflowing with captives from Dalen's battlefields, but there's not a comely wench to be found among them.” She shook her head and let out a sigh of disgust. “If the Remnant has exhausted its supply of choice slaves and the market price continues rising due to disruptions by the Iron Queen, slave raids into Varland and Aelmere may be worth commencing again.”

“Those would be risky ventures,” Sylla said. “I assure you, Dalen is still the best place to buy the chattel you desire. It's a land of eternal conflict, and conflict means endless refugees. Sometimes the times are good, other times not so much, and that's just the nature of this business. But I do have one prime piece of goods you might find to your liking. A pretty half-elf. She only just came in now after you arrived.”

On cue, Orla was brought over by Tiberius, her mop of straw coloured blonde hair disheveled about her face, her silver-veined blue eyes flashing consternation as she was made to shuffle forward in her leg shackles. To her further embarrassment the slavemaster lifted her up onto a stool so that Lucretia could have a better look at her like an animal at the fair. She could hardly believe that any of this was happening, and in an incredulous daze regarded the other woman, who she could tell was a mage of some sort.

“Well, well, what have we here?” Lucretia purred, her mood suddenly brightening.

“How do you do?” Orla said, assuming the friendly mein that was natural to her. “I am called Orla, Orla Carling. I—”

“You will speak only when you're told to speak!” Sylla snapped at her.

As Orla shut her mouth and nodded meekly in response, Lucretia smiled a slow leering smile and looked her over admiringly. With her radiant pink white complexion and fine bone structure of her face, the half-elf maid could easily pass for a young human of only twenty years of age. She was not a gorgeous beauty like An'neer or other night elves Lucretia had known. Still she was very pretty in a girlish way, and her flawless skin and dark lashes set off her unusual coloured eyes rather fetchingly. Lucretia took in her body. She was quite a tiny thing, with small delicate shoulders and arms, but her petite figure was delightful, with pleasing curves where curves should be. She wore a simple aubergine dress which was belted at the waist and fell to her knees, revealing her shapely calves and very small, dainty feet.

“Is she to your liking?” Sylla asked, smiling as if already knowing the answer.

Lucretia laughed. “Where the hell did you find her, and are there any more like her?”

Sylla shot a satisfied look at Tiberius. “You can question the girl at your leisure if you're willing to pay my asking price.”

Lucretia eagerly untied the heavy coin purse from her belt, all too happy to pay whatever price Sylla demanded for the delectable little half-elf.


Lucretia grabbed Orla by her chains and walked from the slave camp. Once outside she took the smaller woman's hand and whispered a chant into a golden ring with a glowing amethyst. A cloud of purple smoke sprouted from the gem and engulfed the two.

Inside a sumptuously decorated chamber with a domed ceiling and whitewashed walls, the sorceress and her new slave rematerialised amid the purple smoke. Orla coughed out the acrid magical residue and suddenly felt the dry heat of the scorching desert sun from an open window that showed a view of sandy grey dunes stretching off into the horizon. Sand dunes? she thought, her heart plummeting. Clearly they had just teleported all the way to the very distant Sultanate of Zatar, the easternmost part of the known world, making her prospects of escape very bleak and challenging indeed.

Lucretia grabbed Orla by the shoulder, roughly spun her around, and proceeded to unlock and remove her shackles. “This is your new home, wench. Get used to it. You will be spending the rest of your life here.”

I don't think so, Orla thought defiantly as she massaged her wrists where the restraints had been on too tight. She began contemplating the most useful spells she had in her repertoire that she might cast once she was free of the rest of the iron bonds, only to be deeply disappointed when Lucretia left the collar in place on her neck.

“That stays,” the sorceress said, smiling almost knowingly. “That is your slave collar, and it lets everyone know you're a slave. I will be replacing it with something else, but I don't see any pressing need at the moment. I rather like how the metal matches the silver of your eyes.”

“I don't suppose you would consider letting me go free?” Orla asked vainly.

Lucretia's smile vanished and her hand lashed out at Orla's face, connecting with a loud smack. “Stupid and stubborn slaves don't last long in this house! Is that understood, half blood?”

Orla was almost knocked off her feet by the vicious blow. She had never been physically struck before like that and found it most distressing and unpleasant. She put a hand to her stinging cheek, her eyes wide with shock. “Y-yes, milady!” she spluttered, breathless.

The sorceress glared down at her. “Milady? Only free citizens call me that. You will call me Mistress.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Orla corrected, trying to mollify the woman.

“That's better,” Lucretia said, her tone softening a little. “From this moment on, you will obey my every command like your life depends on it—because it does. You will be expected to wait on my every whim, and provide pleasure and entertainment for me and my guests.”

Orla wasn't sure what that all meant, but she was sure she didn't like the sounds of it one bit.

Lucretia turned and as she saw An'neer coming toward them she felt the usual stirrings of envy and lust. The stunningly beautiful golden-haired night elf was the pride of her collection of slaves, and the hot-blooded desire of many important men in the city whose political influence she sought to use for her own ends. Lucretia had turned down exorbitant offers to purchase An'neer from her, who she considered priceless. Not only was the night elf highly trained in the pleasure arts, but was a talented game player as well, able to win in one evening more than the girl's own weight in coin. Of all the numerous possessions Lucretia had inherited from the old wizard, An'neer had surely been the most valuable.

Orla had never seen a night elf before and regarded the woman with curiosity and a little awe, rarely having seen anyone so pretty, or so scandalously clad either.

“Well my trip to Dalen wasn't a total waste of time as I feared,” Lucretia said, gesturing happily at Orla. “Out of the dozen slave camps I combed through there was one gem to be found. As you can see she's a little short, but what a fine face and beautiful skin she has, and just look at those eyes. She also has a sweet voice, and I even like her funny accent too.” The sorceress smiled a lurid grin and cupped the fae elf's little chin. “Can you sing, wench? Or dance, perhaps?”

“I... have had lessons,” Orla answered reluctantly.

Lucretia grinned. “Excellent, excellent. What a prize you are! Do you think so, too, An'neer? Does she have as much potential as I think? Could she in time prove an adequate replacement for even Su'lunia?” the sorceress asked, referring to one night elf slave in particular who had run off the year before.

An’neer frowned in mild annoyance as she drew closer to examine the newcomer in better detail. Her colorful and fancifully decorated fingers drew through Orla's hair, lifting it up and away so she might examine the fae elf's ears and neck, before then moving her attention to Orla’s small hands checking both briefly.

“One would be hard pressed to replace the likes of Su’lunia...” An’neer spoke aloud softly, a disappointed sounding sigh escaping her lips as she released Orla’s hands from her own, letting them fall away as she shook her head. “…and free birthed elves are always more expensive than they are worth. Nothing but time and trouble to train. It doesn’t matter how pretty or talented they are if all they do is waste away thinking of home and escape.”

Orla endured the gentle, but brusque inspection by the An'neer with tolerant calm and tried not to react to the obvious truth of the night elf's words and how they knew escape was on the forefront of her mind. If she was to break out of this house she would need them to let down their guard, not be fully expecting her to make the attempt. But slavery in all its many horrid aspects seemed tritefully familiar to these people, and An'neer had the air of someone who had seen it all before, too many times.

Lucretia grabbed Orla by the arm, almost bruising her in the hard grip. "That won't be a problem anymore. I'm sure I can convince her that there is nothing left for her now and this is her new life. Dalen isn't suitable for her anyways, it's gone mad."

“The whole of the world has gone mad, if the stories are to be believed.” An’neer gave another slight shrug. “As for your latest acquisition here, she is pretty enough I guess, and should prove a pleasant companion in bed if she at least knows what she is doing.”

Orla's eyes widened and she blushed at the night elf's indelicacy. Was that what was expected of her? Oh, surely not. No, it couldn't be, could it? She looked searchingly between the two women and fear started to set in again.

Lucretia released Orla from her rough grasp and walked away to grab a drink. Another slave promptly poured from a bottle of expensive Aelmerian sherry. It was then that the steward of the house approached Lucretia and whispered something inaudible into her ear. The woman's face twisted into a snarl. "Ada, again?! Once you find her, I want her brought to me! This time I will teach her a lesson she will never forget! Now go and hunt her down, and if you don’t recover her this very night, it will be your hide that I skin!" The man gave a fearful nod before hurrying off.

Lucretia gripped the goblet and took a sip of her drink. "I am vexed by so many things at the moment, An'neer. Those blasted Dalish nobles are divided and desperate but apparently the long dead Sainte family has returned to take the throne in the form of that crazed madman Draken Darkward. It wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't for the fact they are claiming that Draken is in fact the last living Sainte. As it turns out, this is the same blasted Draken who created that cursed mark the Iron Queen has been using to make those abominable Kruell! Estoban Soldor has lost his mind if he's willing to let that hellspawned piece of trash take the old throne, more so if he thinks the half-breed can unite Dalen." She grimaced at the thought before taking another sip from her drink.

Taking deep breaths, Orla listened to Lucretia discuss the happenings in Dalen and did not dare interject, not that she really had anything to add. The sorceress seemed remarkably well informed for news that was only hours old. Why did a Zataran care so much about what was transpiring in Dalen?

An’neer looked on attentively, but with something akin to an expression of mild concern playing upon her expressive features regarding the matter that concerned her owner so greatly. “My mistress should not trouble herself over such things,” she offered simply, as she carefully moved her hands to her mistresses shoulders, her delicate fingers working away the building tensions there. “My Mistress worries herself often and needlessly about these nobles and their petty dramas when she knows well enough that these matters are beneath her.”

An’neer’s fingers worked gently, but firmly upon her mistress's tired shoulders as she offered a mock pout and leaned closer to whisper softly into Lucretia's ear. “My mistress has only just returned and already speaks such words that I fear suggest that she makes plans even now to depart yet again. She should rest and perhaps supper this evening… followed by a warm bath to wash away her troubles.”

Lucretia relaxed greatly under An'neer's expert touch, smiling at the night elf's words, "No, no, Dalen can fall. My ally will probably deal with them and take advantage of these events. Supper and a bath sounds lovely."

Turning her attention’s back to Orla, An’neer shook her head in mock dismay. “Speaking of baths... this one has the stink of Sylla’s kennels on her, and no doubt needs a thorough washing and those filthy rags she has on burned.”

Orla, never having been accused of uncleanliness in all her life, bridled silently at An'neer's disparagement. Full of exquisite threadwork and banded with silk ribbons and silver braid trim, the aubergine frock she wore had been created for her by the famed Joce Tailor. It was a bit wrinkled and may have needed some mild laundering, but it was neither filthy nor rags, and certainly didn't need to be destroyed.

Lucretia smiled at An'neer. "The slaver Sylla is a cruel woman, but not as cruel as I can be when someone misbehaves," she said, directing the comment at Orla, her head then turning toward another collared slave girl. "Soo, take my newest addition away and wash her until her skin is shining and smooth like a pearl, then give her some proper attire. Once that is done, we can begin the more," she let out a great sigh, as if thinking of something immensely pleasurable, "eventful part of the night..."

Eventful part of the night? An anguished chill rippled through Orla at the ominous pronouncement and she felt a knot of dread tighten in her stomach. “Please,” she blurted desperately. “I have a close friend who has a gift for making mutually beneficial business transactions. If you would let me contact him, I promise you he would make you a very attractive offer for my release.”

“Not interested,” Lucretia said, giving her another dangerous glare. “And if you ever suggest such a preposterous thing again... you don't want to know what I'll do to you! It'll make what I already intend to do to you pale in comparison!” She made an impatient wave of her hand to the other slave. “Go, take her away!”

Trembling at Lucretia's threat, Orla was led out of the room, soon leaving Lucretia and An'neer alone.

The sorceress's anger faded and sitting back in her chair she chuckled wickedly. “The cheek of the girl, thinking to negotiate her release! New slaves can be so amusing sometimes!”

An’neer reflected thoughtfully for a moment. “Given the dire state of the Zataran slave market, Mistress, we may perhaps wish to approach this one with more caution and restraint. Perhaps investing in a charm or two, or perhaps even a Bride Ring to bend her to your will more easily?”

“Yes, a bride ring. It will be enjoyable to see its effect on her,” Lucretia said, nodding agreeably at the idea. “An item like that won't be hard to come across in this city.” She took another sip of the sherry. “Did you see the girl's look once I mentioned Draken? Something isn't right. My ally will come tomorrow, I believe he needs to very much know what is happening in Dalen. It was his original home, you know." She sipped her drink and frowned worriedly. “My beloved An'neer, do you have any idea what could be the nature of the Kruell? They are what keep me awake at night. I can see them spelling Zatar's doom...”

“You think so? I’m sorry, Mistress, my knowledge of such things is limited at best, ” An’neer frowned once glancing at the painted decorations that adorned her hands, if only briefly. “I understand that these Kruell are beings cursed by the Iron Queen who do her bidding and upon her command turn into monstrous beasts who know no pain and kill without restraint or measure. The Iron Queen must indeed be a powerful spellcaster to bring about such horrors to life.”

Lucretia grimaced as she looked at the ceiling, "No, it's that blasted Mark that is the cause. Invented by the same half breed in Dalen, the Iron Queen isn't even that powerful. They seem like enchantments, but demonic in nature. The problem is, the Abyss and The Hells have never made enchantments, it's been proven to be impossible. If it was possible…" she drifted off for a moment. "If it was possible then the most docile of imps would become nightmarish." She shook her head at the threat that lay before them.

An’neer could only nod in acknowledgement of her Mistresses far greater knowledge and understanding of such things. While An’neer had learned a great many things over the years, most of what she had learned was little more than mimicry of the abilities of those with far greater ability. Things she had seen her various slave owners do. And while An’neer did have a noteworthy talent for producing pleasant and enjoyable mind altering effects that mimicked your common indulgences that her many owners had enjoyed over the years, her abilities were themselves limited to minor healing and restoration spells, having never enjoyed an education in the greater arts of magic since being she was only a slave.

As for this supposed ally Lucretia kept mentioning, An’neer could not bring herself to trust the man, not caring at all for the way he looked at her Mistress when he thought she wasn’t looking.

Lucretia flicked her gaze over to An'neer, "My ally has been in a more chipper mood as of late. It would seem his work for The One has finally paid off. I believe that Incarius has brought his old love back, no doubt she will be arriving soon to reunite with him. I envy him, however he has been around for over one hundred years, loyal to The One, so his reward was due. I can't wait for when I take this land for my own, and send all those pigs to the gutter, where they belong. Like, filthy rats." Lucretia smiled and gazed lustfully at her favorite pleasure slave. "An'neer, come sit with me. I feel very lonely waiting for the new girl to be ready. This seat is also so very cold at the moment. Would you be so kind as to warm me up?"

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