Thread: The Bet (Darjeeling X QB)

Of all the slaves he had brought low, of all the people whom shivered at the crack of the whip, not a single person came close to exhibiting the defiance that the Bluebird had demonstrated. Had fate been a little kinder she would have eclipsed even Brandhardt the Undying's bravery in battle. The depravity of guards at his employ could reduce even the most hardened or mercenaries into tears and begging husks after a night in the torture cell yet not once did Fleur crack under the pressure that they forced against her. That could change by tonight. I took care not to damage you too much. But the way you ticked off that kid made me think he'll really be cutting loose. I wouldn't be surprised if you ended up as pig food by morn's daybreak. Uncharacteristically strange for the Slave trader was the fact that he did not grope nor fondle any part of her. He hated to admit it, but perhaps he was going to miss the Bluebird... As much as I'd love to say that...it'd hurt business, you know? It was strange for him to reply in such a casual manner, atleast one that sounded almost so patronizing in a sense. Brats like him are what gets me coin in my pocket. Old bones like me can't go back to the Royal Navy, especially after deserting like I did. There was definitely more to Markus than what it may seem. He too bore scars atypical of the ones created by whips and brands they were the marks of glory and a reminder of the comrades he has lost. If you're gonna go...stick a big one in that bent kid's eye, will you? Markus smirked gently, taking a seat. Don't care if it costs you a limb or two. Show that pompous kid what for. The way Markus spoke sounded as if he conversed casually with a friend. That must definitely have been the case, given how all of his had passed on during the Century's war. Whether she became food for cattle or not, Markus couldn't really care. In a way, her defiant show inspired in him a brief sense of pride. He loathed having to serve the fatted calf that was the nobility in Albion. So many good men and women died in war all for what? Just so that these nobles can continue bathing in wine and eating in banquets? She could take it as she desired whichever the case, Markus did not come to try and beat some sense into her. After all, he tried that numerous times what was the result aside from failure? Turning away, he snaps his finger as one of the guards from before enters, throwing roughly to Bluebird a ratty black fabric, long enough to be used to cover her prone form and to provide adequate warmth. Drinking in that guard's frustration of having to reward the same Slave who broke his nose was definitely a good serving of karmic justice as he was quick to leave. Good riddance, Bluebird. And may you show that pompous prick hell when you become his. The Slavetrader's voice echoes from outside as their footsteps gradually fade away. Perhaps they wanted to give her a chance to rest before tonight...for only fate knows just what that cruel noble has in store for Fleur... Perhaps one could take it as a show of mercy, but Fleur was spared the arduous walk down London's cobblestone roads and was treated to a carriage ride chained to the wall as such. Granted she was still restrained like a common criminal awaiting retribution before the Grand Jury, but atleast she was spared the tiring march to the building. Hewn from marble and stone, the Lower House of Lords was quite the sight even for something that London's nobility wasn't entirely interested in keeping. The Night was young and the preparations was busy. Grasping onto her chains, the guards pulled harshly, tagging along the Sauburean woman as she was forced to march. While clothed in a thin black robe, the guard who escorted her decided instead to reach over an tear the cloak off, a hand gently striking against her rear. That belongs to Markus, you bitch. The guard jeers along, pacing away in fear of possible retaliation. Bound ankle and wrist she may be, but even that did not discount safety from the fiery Slave. The two had their fun, only to be met by a pair of servants near the entrance. Good evening. We are here to acquire Lord Edgar's merchandise. The woman speaks in a refined and dignified manner, her accent natural and rather flowing despite the difference in her ethnicity and the language she spoke so fluently. After an exchange of papers and a seal, the male counterpart glares harshly at the men as they commented on the woman's shapely form. Had it not been for her hand grasping against his wrist there may have been an altercation. And you. You must be Lord Edgar's purchase. By heavens you are absolutely filthy! The Male protested in slight disgust. BUt it definitely was not towards Fleur it definitely had to be in her time as a servant. Up close...the two wore collars. They were in no better place than she had. The woman walked closer, holding the keys to her chains. The male stops her. Sister! Is that so safe? Perhaps he was correct in saying that something hinted the young Banghan slave that. His sister seemed relaxed, instead inserting the key despite her brother's protest. Worry not, Dinesh. The woman's touch was gentle, her hand softly stroking against a scar on her hand. ...How unfortunate. There is only so much Malachar's Balm can cover... She speaks in a rather sorrowful tone, even as her brother Dinesh slowly places a robe around her naked form. The slight flush on his cheeks ought to denote a slight attraction. What is your name? The girl asked. Ah! Forgive me my lack of manners. My name is Ameera, servant to the esteemed Viscount of Muldraugh. And this is my brother Dinesh. The boy seemed reluctant to return a glance, instead carrying the heavy shackles she was chained with. We have been instructed to clean and prepare you for tonight's performance. I trust you will come, no? The woman held out her hand much to the boy's mistrust, evident in his eyes. Escape was all the more possible, yes, but the plausibility of such? For the girl to have removed her shackles despite the boy's insistence...it either had to be her naivete or her confidence.