Thread: The Bet (Darjeeling X QB)

The strike was not unexpected but Fleur winced all the same. Even if the blow did not sting as much as the beatings her father had given her, she could taste the blood from where her teeth had bitten down on her tongue. A pink rose blossomed on a single, pale cheek as the raven-haired slave worked her jaw to loosen the numbness from her face. She did not reply to what she knew was the noble's rhetoric question giving him a reason to strike her again was not at the top of her list of things to accomplish today. Yet she could barely hold back a smile as the blonde grasped at his wrist - his soft flesh was not used to such abuse it seemed and Fleur was far tougher than many would be lead to believe with her build. Her nose wrinkled in disgust at his words - nephew of the Queen? That meant nothing to her. Put a crown on a pig and it would still be a pig. The same went for kings and their jewel encrusted draperies and fineness. Nobility who paraded their status around like a badge were the worst kind and Fleur saw not only hatred but a childish, sadistic immaturity. As Markus was unkindly roared at, Fleur stole a glance at the girl called Kyra who looked to be so thin and small, she was like to slip through the stockade sooner rather than later. What a sight that might be, but the maiden may be too craven even then to make a run for it. She ran her tongue over her teeth softly as the conversation played out in the background, her purchase by the blonde noble discussed none too subtly within earshot of everyone in the marble courtyard. Fleur thought she had been persuasive and polite enough but the nobleman either had wax in his ears or mush between them. Certainly he would be disappointed. She was not so easily broken, as her impressive collection of old, white scars were of any indication to prior mistreatment. The green fire had never once gone out and Fleur intended to stoke them for as long as she lived. The noble's departure was punctuated by a cruel hooting laugh, ugly in delivery and ugly in meaning. Fleur simply glared at him, all notion of simple seduction gone as his tailcoat disappeared behind the door and the slave-trader's fist slamming into her stomach. That had been unexpected and Fleur could not hold back a gasp as her breath suddenly came in short, pained wheezes. She coughed as the ache spread through her, likely the punch would leave a lovely, discolored bruise for her new master's pleasure before long. With her chin wrenched upwards by the roots of her hair, Fleur could only bare and grit her teeth, one eye shut as if that would lessen the strain though the only liquid that dripped from her face was Markus' own frothy spit. You're... welcome... Fleur managed to reply between gritted teeth and a ghost of a smile played upon her lips twisted in pain, then hidden relief as she was finally released from Markus' grip. Her scalp throbbed as did her stomach and wrists and there was no honey coating the matter. Many more parts of her would hurt soon, of that fact she knew as two of the slaver's guards, cruel as their employer, marched up to her, unchaining her from the post and dragging her away from the wooden beam and the burning gaze of Kyra the maiden. She did not give the guards a good time of it at first, struggling between their beefy, firm grips and snapping her teeth at them though that only earned her another slap laid upon the fresh bruise already present on her cheek. The taste of rust was familiar on her tongue with flakes of it falling away as the bar was forced between her lips. Fleur had almost broken her teeth on it once and her jaw had ached fiercely after but by now she had come to appreciate its presence even if she did not like what it stood for. Being able to bit against something stopped her from biting her own tongue off and helped to center the pain. Tonight was no different. Time slowed and stopped at inconsistent intervals after the first blow that had driven itself straight into her stomach, deliberately aiming for Markus' brand. Her suspended frame swung precariously after each slap or punch, her wrists clenched tightly at her spine as she clamped down harder onto the metal, pretending it was that noble's stupid nose or one of the guard's fingers. Bruise lay with bruise to birth new ones and they were all of varying shapes and colors some a sickly, pale yellow and others an angry purple-blue while the slaps left her skin flushed with crimson. By the end, her body was sticky with blood and screaming in pain. All Fleur could think about was her mother and the rust heavy on her tongue. She must have passed out for a short while after her tormentors had left her, for she was quickly roused awake when the creaky iron door slammed open and she was dropped unceremoniously to the ground. Left bound by the wrists, the bar was removed from her mouth which dripped saliva as it was pulled away as it always was. From there, the dirty prison was next with barely a few strands of straw covering the filthy floor. Fleur leaned herself against the wall with her legs curled up tightly beneath her. It did nothing for the pain and she was glad of it she would not forget this, as she had never forgotten every other beating she had been given. By the guards, by Markus, by nameless men and their faceless companions. By her father. Fleur awoke once more, the sounds of the door opening and closing an irritation now to her still ringing ears they had thought it prudent to only box her about the head once or twice, leaving her face the least damaged. Markus' voice was a distant growl, unimportant to her as her mind flickered. It was hard to keep her thoughts intact for the numerous pangs of pain all over her frame. It was hard to keep up with them. She would like nothing more than to spit at the slaver too but she had no moisture left in her mouth. A name to a face... Fleur finally managed to say between wracking coughs, her voice raw yet no less insincere. Lord Edgar. More like Lord Mouse. Kyra seemed to have more courage than him. She smiled, her thin shoulders lifting into a shrug. Pitiful, but still a shrug. I have never begged more than I needed to. Not tonight or tomorrow night, she licked her lips, cracked and covered in dried blood. Bright emeralds peered out from the gloom, one smaller than the other as she looked through a swollen eye. It did not lessen the fire, and the fire did not die. Lord Edgar would have an easier time sucking himself off and you tell him I said so.