property of rian. ( mimi / rian / whoever else )

[ollie]

“Don’t go near her.”
“She’ll kill you.”
“She poisons men.”
“They say she’s the most beautiful woman in the country.”
“She’s made of lies.”

“Bring her in.”

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Her head jerked up at the opening of her chamber doors. Her heart began racing, her stomach churning, and she scrambled to her feet, the clink of chains filling the large, almost entirely unfurnished room. Her eyes were ablaze with what could be the beginnings of insanity, and there was a bitter taste in the back of her throat. She looked crazed, having been stuck in that room for two days, barely eating and forced to use the pot to the side of the chamber for… certain uses. She smelled sour, her hair was tangled, and she had almost entirely lost her wits. The haze of fear, of pain, made it hard to distinguish the man before her, and she squinted at the servant standing in the doorway. He studied her quietly, shifted his weight, and cleared his throat. The sound echoed in the large, empty chamber.

“The Master would like you to come to his chamber.”

No Miss, no title of any sort—she was a slave now. Uncared for, unnoticed, overlooked. She swallowed the anger rising in her throat, standing, and watched the man undo her chains, as well as loop a few into the metal band on her neck. “He says there is something important to speak about.”

- - - - -

She hated this. She’d been put on a plain palomino mare, reins looped with the reins of the horses on either sides of her. Her hands had been changed, her nails filed down, the shackles on her ankles still attached. She had her mouth gagged, since she’d started making ‘rude remarks,’ and she had been actually chained to her saddle, which had been made for this specific purpose. Slave transportation.

Lore watched the scenery go by, wishing this was a common day rather than a day she was trading masters. She was a gift, a “living sacrifice, if you will,” to the Silian prince. She was beautiful, that much was true; the supposed most lovely of her country, a few months ago. Her hair was such a pale blond it shone like gold in the sunlight. It was a full wave, and her pale blue eyes were trademark to the women of her country. Women that had been conquered by Silus, taken in and swept under the rug, turned into prostitutes and slaves like her. But she was the warrior princess; the girl too tough to break without chains to her limbs.

Now, as they stopped in the Reginien courtyard, she was pulled off the horse, not even fighting. They undid the gag, put the chains through the loops, and now, she stood before the people of class. They sniffed, frowning at her—made of savagery, it appeared, with a makeshift-looking skirt and a bare torso, save for the wrap around her bust from the same material. She stretched her legs, yawning, and looked at the man that had brought her.

“So, where’s this Silian Prince?” she asked, voice rough with an accent (think Russian).
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[Mimi]

The languid midday found the Silian prince seated comfortably under the overreaching branches of a proud and sturdy oak, placed like so in the middle of the courtyard solely for recreational purposes. The umbra of its great and towering frame seemed to stretch on for miles at early dawn and at late evening when the sun flashed its salutes in a dazzling display of colors and, in both instances, splayed the shadows far and wide. But, at that moment, with the sun blazing nearly directly overhead – a most acute point for someone who fancied he was feeling the peakish beginnings of a merciless fever – what shade was available lay but a few paces in every direction from where Rian now found himself, a rose in hand in a very small part of the world where roses were under hard persecution. He seemed most interested in it, but the reason behind this intense fascination remained to be seen. The rose was but a rose save for, perhaps, the blackness that was not uncommonly seen on a bush but most commonly disregarded in hand for the redness of its lustrous brother. In truth, even Rian couldn’t fathom the reason for his interest. Perhaps it was the irony of having the darkest and most abased color – not even a color, really – tainting a rose, the epitome of, if not goodness, then surely the wholesomeness of love – any love – and of its meaner kin, lust.

Where he got it, considering the Queen’s sensitivity, one could only imagine. Perhaps he had plucked it whilst on an errand in the market or, for those severely unawares of the stubborn man’s misogyny, had bought it for a sweetheart. But then that begs the question, what sweetheart? Which lover, if such existed, had he bought it for? A Reginen servant? A certain lady with whom he had been butting heads in public but could very well have shared, as was wont the case, a secret passion in private? Or, for those who were (scantily) informed of the Prince’s lack of interest in the opposite sex, perhaps a rose bought for someone of the same sex – a rose for love and lust and black for the sinful crime against Providence? An obsolete idea, to be sure, but also one finely woven into the dark corners of society and so often overlooked as the, as they say, elephant in the room.

Such a little thing, when placed under public scrutiny, could turn many a head indeed. Who was the fancy of the Silian Prince’s ever-changing affections, so difficultly caught and easily lost?

It was in the midst of this cacophony – the raucous neighing of horses and trainers in the distance and the ready whispers of a gossiping court in the foreground – that the soft footfalls of former warrior princess and servant sounded. Muffled as it was by the grass and ground, it was enhanced a thousand-fold by the sudden, chill silence that descended upon all in view of the maiden – no, temptress! For, what else could she be, after all?

Only Rian, focused elsewhere with a distant but irrefutable melancholy in the murky mire that was his eye, remained completely and utterly oblivious until, suddenly overcome by queasiness and premonition, he looked up in alarm and made the smallest indication of leaving. By then, however, the possibility of leaving without arousing attention had long gone, and instead, Rian decided to remain and draw out his incognito. The thick, foreign accent and, judging from the chains, cursed ethereal beauty radiating off of the newcomer seemed to command all attention, even, disgruntled as he was to admit, his.

Her approach caused an immediate and visible reaction in him. One of lesser schooling might have taken it for interest – arousal, even. But behind that alertness wasn’t lethargy induced by libido but rather, activeness induced by curiosity (and, he made a point to stress, very mild curiosity considering the subject).

His churning mind immediately spat out a thousand and one possibilities as to who she was. Cold and calculating green eyes swept over the shapely frame, down the length of her legs, scrutinizing and picking at whatever hinted at her obscure identity. Nothing – or so he liked to believe – escaped his notice, refined by years of Court play and intrigue.

The foul stench of days’ imprisonment masked by rose water - but not fully expunged - assaulted Rian’s olfactory senses, the two flavors intermingling and bringing out the ugliness in one another. Thus, the dissatisfied scrunching of his nose.

The prettiness that shone through despite the obvious detriment, the one stray hair – looking frazzled and split – amongst the hundred other glistening ones, the paradoxical juxtaposition of defeat and defiance in her posture – all attested to her servitude. Forced servitude, and not because she had dark skin or because some farmer resorted to this as his last option. No, she was…something else – the result of Silus’s last overthrow, perhaps…?

Whereas another might have lingered, the lack of clothes, though also explicative, was mainly a superfluous ornament that deserved only the briefest consideration on Rian's part. Then, as suddenly as he had stirred, he looked away, having in that one brief glance lasting barely the full length of five seconds believed that he'd learned all that was worthwhile to know, and like a petulant and fickle child after play with a new toy, lost interest.

Not even rising from his seat, he called out in answer to the woman’s question, “And who, may I ask, is inquiring?”

Having looked over her once, Rian found no need in doing so again and in lieu, fell to twiddling the thick stem of said black rose between his thumb and forefinger at arm’s length so as not to provoke that pernicious ailment which had, at least for the moment, retreated to some dark spot inside of him.

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[ollie]

Lore had taken more interest in studying the courtyard, the beauty of it all. Back home it wasn’t horrendous, but of course, it wasn’t quite this wealthy. Their people were warrior people; they fought for what they wanted, hunted for their own dinners, and it was all fair, all based on how good in combat or how skilled you were with weapons that insured a healthy, even wealthy survival. Her father had been a merchant when he’d settled down with her mother in the city; he’d taken much longer than was well to adjust, but eventually he did, and both Lore and her brother were skilled warriors. Every last one of them had fought when they’d been conquered—and every last one was either killed or enslaved. She hadn’t heard of one survivor; because she didn’t consider this living, not one bit.

“And who, may I ask, is inquiring?” It was a man’s voice, though a young man’s, that made the men around Lore turn to look towards whomever had spoken. They bowed, hastily, before jerking into straight-backed stances, looking wide eyed and terrified of what she assumed was their prince. She yawned, covering her mouth, and looked around a second more before looking at him, as uninterested as she had been in the people around her for this whole trip. She shifted her feet, which made a whole lot of noise with the chains, and looked around the soldiers and noble men that went from looking at the prince before looking at her. She frowned, not understanding, until one of them grabbed her elbow and yanked her over.

“You’re his slave. You cannot stand taller than him,” the man hissed in her ear, and she yanked out of his grip. She glared at him, a moment, before looking back at the prince. She bit back a sigh and moved onto her knees with fluid ease—a bit too fluid for a lady, if you asked any of the bystanders—and leaned forward, putting her elbows to the ground and forehead to her flattened wrists as well, making her look somewhat like a person swallowed up in religious prayer. To worship her master, though—that was a long shot, in reference to Lore.

She raised her head, putting her weight on her upturned heels, and glanced at the men that watched her expectantly before looking back at the prince. She didn’t speak, and finally what seemed to be the leader of the men stepped forward, smiling apologetically before speaking. “I dearly apologize for her insolence—this is Lore Adreias, a gift sent to you from her original master, for your aid in the war. She is a bit of a feisty one…” he trailed off, and reached over to tilt up her chin. She yanked back, snapping at his finger, which he sharply withdrew. “…but that is what the chains are for, are they not?” he said laughingly to his men, who grimaced as they watched the young woman. The man cleared his throat, looking back at the prince quickly. “Yes, well… We do hope you enjoy her, because we do not plan to take her back anytime soon. She’s not quite broken in yet… and we don’t prefer the fight.”

He smiled, bowed, and they mounted their horses without looking back, leaving Lore to Rian. She studied him, pushing down any sort of reaction, before resituating herself so she was sitting on her bum, still silent.

[Mimi]

There was a momentary lull following his inquiry during which the woman was pulled onto her knees - a nasty practice. Not that Rian did not like being bowed to. On the contrary, his father often said the royal family was "ordained by God" to rule, and though Rian on the whole was not intensely religious - having once called the entire affair "poppycock" at a young age and been beaten severely for it - he was very much aware that the claim had played an important part in nurturing his ego. But this - the concept of slaves - was ridiculous and always had been. He'd known that in Silus, a few years before the war, they had been in wide use what with Silus's many occupations, and they had been indeed obliged to act as this girl was acting now. Complete submission, bowing with their noses to the ground, and what had that amounted to? Revolts. Disobedience. Slavery had proved to be a great problem prior to the war. It had died down since, and Rian was ill-suited to the idea of bringing it back. Why have slaves when servants were so much more easily trained and cleaner by comparison? They obeyed not out of fear, which could only work for so long, but out of selfishness and self-preservation. That aside, what use did Rian have for a slave anyhow? And a female one at that.

This would not have been Rian's first human "gift offering". There'd been many - nearly all women - and at first, Rian hadn't an idea as to their use. But...one gradually...learned, and when he had finally caught on, he was absolutely disgusted by the thought. He pawned most of them off on his half-brother, a raunchy and corrupt leach - even by Silian standards - who did not even try to hide the fact that he kept an entire harem in his cellar.

Rian discreetly returned his gaze to Lore, watching from the corner of his eyes. Yes...his brother would appreciate her, and what would happen to her then...well, Rian scarcely cared.

“I dearly apologize for her insolence—this is Lore Adreias, a gift sent to you from her original master, for your aid in the war. She is a bit of a feisty one…”

Lore Adreias... Rian mouthed the name to himself not so much impressed by it as by the fact that she had just tried to bite off her captor's finger. The slightest sign of a smirk appeared at the edge of his mouth, all but undetectable except by the keenest observer.

“Yes, well… We do hope you enjoy her, because we do not plan to take her back anytime soon. She’s not quite broken in yet… and we don’t prefer the fight.”

Rian waved a hand dismissively, acknowledging their leave, before heaving out of his seat, as though the motion somehow pained him, and nonchalantly making his way to Lore who had, in the meantime, sat onto her backside. He watched her for another moment, twiddling the rose in his left hand all the while, before suddenly leaning down and somewhat brusquely grabbing her hand and upturning her wrist.

"I see..." he murmured, flicking his eyes up then back down. "You are a warrior." Pause. "I can respect that."

His eyes ran along the contours of her body before his frown deepened, and he sighed as though greatly burdened. "Shit, you're thin," he muttered and straightened, calling for a servant who had been standing a few feet away.

"Dress her, feed her, clean her, make love to her; just get her out of my sight. Make her presentable, inform her on Silian etiquette; I will not have myself demeaned because of some unruly wench. Is that clear?"

The man, a youth in his early twenties perhaps, had just barely smiled at the latter suggestion but only because he'd been with the royal family for so long that the idea seemed rather comical considering his master's views on the opposite sex.

"Yes, Your Royal Highness," he responded, with a nod. "Is there anything else --- "

Rian had been in the act of replying when he very suddenly doubled over, wracked by some invisible force. His entire frame shook from the intensity of the coughs, so much so that he was afraid the stitches on his back and chest would reopen.

A murmur immediately spread through the crowd – at the speed of gossip – and one could almost see it as it rippled across the gaudy show like a rock upon a pond, the waves just pulsing from one painted mouth to the next. A few stood up, concerned. The servant, stunned, couldn't seem to decide whether to leave for help or remain.

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[ollie]

as rian took her wrist, lore almost yanked back—but it was so slight in his hand that it felt like it weren’t hers. her wrist bones protruded more than ever, and her hips were more severe angles than they had ever been in her life. before slavery, she’d been a plump, voluptuous woman: now she was a twig, better to be used to pick the meat between your teeth than rather be the meat you get caught up in. she blinked when he actually made a remark that feigned some sort of pity. “shit, you’re thin.” no kidding. they weren’t really interested in feeding me anything that wasn’t attached to their godforsaken bodies.

she huffed, blue eyes averting studiously to the servant as he came forward. “dress her, feed her, clean her, make love to her; just get her out of my sight.” he went on about etiquette, but by this time lore was highly uninterested in anything the prince had to say, even if it pertained to how she would be treated. her eyes averted to the servant, watching him, the ways she had been taught to do as a child: survey your enemy and know where to strike. but she wasn’t sure who was her enemy, not anymore; it didn’t make sense that everyone felt like an enemy but no one struck her. no one but her masters.

her thought process was cut short when rian began hacking, doubling over as if shoved by something inside him. she watched, her mind reeling through possibilities—disease since birth, allergies, an illness incurable? people say silian princes are cursed from birth… maybe they are. she mulled that over, glancing down at her finger nails and studying them, raising her thumb nail to her mouth and chewing on the edge. it was disturbingly perfect; too round and even.

she stood, her eyes studying the crowd. this man would be in control of the rest of the time she was in this forsaken court; and so she did the first thing that came to mind. “horrible allergies, really,” she said casually, patting his back. the people were soon turning away, the lack of gossip and entertainment losing their interest, and she withdrew her hand from his skin as if it had stung her. her head lowered, voice dropping an octave or two to conceal what she said. “i’d like to know exactly what the hell you have, so i know what symptoms i’m going to be making excuses for.”

she’d been him. a royal, elected just by being born to a king, raised to scheme and keep secrets. she was about just as disinterested in the opposite gender as him; they were all pigs, couldn’t keep their hands off her kind without slobbering. but this rian was a nice change—she could feel how disinterested he was, how little he cared about whatever happened to his new prostitute. that was a new development, and while it did not quite mean that she was interested in him, not even a little bit, it did mean that she was fine with pretending. she’d lived her life pretending, and the fact that she’d now found a warrior as asexual as herself… well, it was nice to know that others understood her point of view. even though she would harm him if he ever called her a whore.

now, she raised her head to the servant. her eyes flashed, narrowing them. he seemed familiar with rian: not at all unsurprised by his approach towards her, though at the same time, completely unfamiliar with what had come down upon his master. he was common enough to know him, but unimportant enough that he didn’t know what ailed the man he worked for. which was… odd. she could practically taste the deceit in the air, the lack of truth that deviled this court. it almost felt like home. she cleared her throat, the hard look in her eyes that of royalty, of someone esteemed.

“i know you think of me as lower than you, but no matter what title i carry it might be a bit educated to get the prince water and honey. to soothe his throat, naturally,” she said in a calm voice, as nonchalantly as she had made her excuse for her new master. her eyes returned to rian, quickly losing interest in his servant, blue eyes losing less of their hardness. “what do you intend to do now, after that… show?” she asked, voice challenging and sharp.

[Mimi]

Rian could barely focus on the bleared ground beneath him, much less the conversations and theories that were pulsating through the crowd then. Shit. He had to keep it down, and he tried. He tried to press the affliction back into that damned and dark nook from which it’d sprung, but as was increasingly the case, it refused to go. The metallic taste of blood that'd become less and less uncommon threatened to creep up his throat, and Rian hastily forced a handkerchief from his pocket, pressing it so tightly against his nose and mouth that it seemed as if the young prince were trying to asphyxiate himself. ("Oh, my! A masochist?")

He’d only recovered enough breath (and sense) to grasp the latter of the whispered words, and when it subsequently registered that the words did indeed belong to Lore, he blinked in surprise as much as in consternation at his current awkward position, half-bent and half-crawled on the grass and dew.

“…so i know what symptoms i’m going to be making excuses for.”

Making excuses for him? Her? Immediately, something like indignation flared up, and Rian ill-liked to have called it "pride," but twas the most fitting term. The degree to which he was controlled by a concern for outward appearances deeply disturbed him at times as it did now, and he felt almost torn between two radically opposite reactions to her gesture - reluctant gratitude or outright annoyance. He rarely liked it when relatives inquired into his affairs, but the gall of this absolute stranger - this girl - doing so did not sit well with him at all. She must have been something in her previous culture.

The servant, meanwhile, had crept closer almost like a mouse, cautiously, for everyone had to walk on eggshells the past few days around the prince. His attitude had been more fluctuating than ever, and even now, the servant knew he could be reprimanded for assisting the prince as much as for not assisting him. The young man started at Lore's voice, his eyes instantly flicking up to her face in surprise and his lips forming the words "allergies" in wonder. Even he wasn't dense enough as to not understand the deceit underlying the word, but it seemed to satisfied the ever ravenous crowd, and for that, he felt grateful to the newcomer, ragged and starved as she was, even if his master did not.

He blinked at Lore's suggestion, opened his mouth as if to say something, clamped it shut once more, and finally nodded rigidlly as he decided there was truth in her words. Without leave from his master, which could have very well meant the whip later, he hurried from the courtyard with this sudden revelation of his master's welfare in mind.

Rian scowled as he came out of the nadir of his fit, placing a hand against his inflamed throat. The rawness of his lungs had almost become unbearable, and it took a few minutes of silence before he could muster up the effort to reply (or to stand, for that matter).

"Move," he rasped, pressing her forward gently not because of any sympathy for her situation but because of weakness from his. "Those chains need to go. My chambers, woman, hasten."

He glanced at her impediments disdainfully and shoved the handkerchief back into its pocket, having long forgotten the rose which now lay desolately in a bed of flowering weeds. His entire body ached, and would that he knew not what it was! 'Twould have been a good load off his mind, but as it was, the pain most likely stemmed from his wounds, reopened and bleeding again. In all good sense, he should have just left Lore there; she was a newly wrought thorn in his side that he could do without, but though in good sense, it would have been in bad practice, and heaven knows what scandals or opinions bad practice could lead to.

With another impatient glance in her direction, Rian straightened and began in the direction of the castle, albeit slowly and not as robustly as a young man of twenty should.

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[ollie]

lore watched him, barely noticing the servant leaving. she watched as rian put a hand to his throat, mildly interested in what was going on. she had somewhat minimal knowledge of diseases; her country wasn’t so heavy on women being nurses or any other sexist idea—women could be mothers or warriors, even military commanders. that was where she was headed when they’d found her: trapped her in her room and kept coming after her until she couldn’t swing an axe anymore. she’d been tenacious, never ending her fight until she ahd no choice but to, and then the details after that were too horrific for her to think through. she swallowed hard, the color coming back to her face as she refocused on rian rather than rape and other experiences since she’d been denoted to “sex slave” as she very plainly was.

“move.”

when he said that, she was just about to snap back at him when he pushed her forward. prince rian of silus, as she’d been taught by her father, had once been a part of the silian army, like any prince of any country. which meant he was a man of strength, though the push wasn’t at all brutish—it was gentle, in comparison to the manhandling (quite literally) she’d been dealing with lately. “those chains need to go. to my chambers, woman, hasten.” she grimaced slightly and shivered subconsciously as she made space between them, deeply unsettled by the feeling of his hand on her bare skin. her eyes lost almost all courage and shot at him nervously, hating the idea of a silian veteran touching her. she’d already had plenty clawing at her—her skin still crawled at the idea. pushing it out of her mind again, she clenched her fists, digging her nails into her palms as she focused.

she let him lead the way, following him semi-closely. the women sneered at her, and she glared back, not hiding her contempt. “they dress like they’re going to a ball every afternoon. how do they move like that?” she muttered, perfectly at ease bare footed and bare shouldered. her waist, she would be fine covering, but not always—it impaired her in battle, and that was what her people were. warriors, born and bred, until the women got pregnant and had to stay home and nurse the child until he was old enough to be taken care of by foreign nannies. her mother had been a warrior queen, her grandmother, and her ancestors as far as she could trace. a matriarchal society, she’d been respected even more than the men in her rank, having learned how to swing an axe about age four and how to properly remove your axe and swing it just right by age five. when she was ten, she could already kill ten men in battle with her beloved, custom axe—and all she could think of now that she remembered it was the fact that she missed it so dearly.

“what’s your weapon in battle? your favorite, the one that you can kill the most people with,” she asked. it was a distracting question, one that he would either find ludicrous or plausible, and she hoped he would really consider it. she blinked, shocked, when a woman knocked shoulders with her. she turned, eyes narrowed, fists clenched as she watched the woman giggle with her friends as she walked by. bitch, she thought, rubbing her wrists subconsciously. the chains were such an odd addition, though she’d gotten somewhat used to it over the months she’d worn them. her wrists were rubbed raw, but not thin; she could still heft an axe if she wanted to, and she did very much so. “let’s get these goddamned chains off so i can actually do something,” she grumbled, eyes narrowing at her vices. for once, she was excited to change masters.