ooc- this is a bit before the revolution begins.
ic- Maron Vitari stepped out of his carriage, breathing in the stale air of the market square. Goods of all kinds were on sale here; jewels, foodstuffs, weapons. But the primary interest of the market, and of Maron, was slaves. The young noble marched up to the platform where the slaves just captured on a recent raid of a neighboring kingdom were being kept. He searched over them before his eyes fell on one in particular.
Sarala, a slave girl stood tall through the slaves. She was one that would not, could not be broken. They had tried everything. Her eyes were pure ice blue and her hair midnight black that ran down to her butt. She had bruises along her arms and gashes everywhere. Though the worst was the one on her forehead. Blood dyed her hair and clothing. As the lord approached, her eyes sparked dangerously and narrowed.
Maron turned as he felt eyes glaring at the back of his head. His own eyes widened as he saw the gir; standing there. Tall and proud, despite having apparently been horribly beaten and abused. The lord hated to see slaves being hurt by their owners. Glowering, he turned to the man selling the female slaves and said, "I'll take her." He pointed at Sarala with his walking stick. Money exchanged hands, Maron received a set of keys, and Sarala was handed off to him. "Bring her to my carriage," he told his guard. He entered the enclosed space of the comfortable carriage himself first, and closed the door as Sarala was pushed inside. With a shout from the driver, the vehicle began to move.
The young girl, about 16 or 17 years old if not that, then close to 18. Her brilliant blue eyes were wary, yet hard as ice as she was roughly grabbed and pushed into the carriage. She bit her tongue until she felt, and tasted her own blood as her wounds were carelessly forgotten. New blood bled through her dress, though it was hard to tell. Sarala managed to stay beside the door, her legs, muscles, and whole body tensed and ready to flee if need be.
Maron watched her calmly, his eyes, one green and one yellow, curiously following her every move. The cane he used to walk easily was placed across his knees, a four foot long rod of obsidian with gold tracings overtop. That walking stick was literally worth more than every slave on the market that day, in coinage at least. Finally, he leaned forward and spoke. "You don't have to be afraid, you know. I have no intention of harming you in any way."
Sarala barred her teeth in a snarl, her eyes flashing with alarm and fear. She would not listen to anyone. they had tried to get her to trust them and look where that landed her. Her hair was ratted and bloody. New blood dripped down her arms and legs as wounds reopened and pain lanced through her, causing her to retreat from him, curling into a small ball and clenching her teeth against the pain.
Maron sighed, sitting back. "I realize it may be impossible for you to trust me, but I truly mean you no harm." He looked out the carriage window. "You'll be bandaged and given something for your pain, as well as some new clothing. You can stay on my estate as a paid servant, or go free with a purse of coins, but for all intents and purposes you are no longer a slave."
Sarala eyed him warily. He was her master, she was supposed to stay at his side. She silently nodded, many thought her mute for she rarely spoke a word. She wrote something swiftly and lay it on the seat before turning away. The note said she would stay at his mansion and work for him. She never had freedom and never expected any, so she chose the option she knew would please her master most with her staying.
Maron picked up the note and read it. He smiled sadly. "Very well, then. I'll introduce you to your fellow servants when we get to the manor." He folded the paper and put it in his pocket.
Sarala warily inclined her head as thanks, though her wounds stung. She was still well on her guard, but if anyone were to approach her without her consent they would be sorry to cross her. Her eyes narrowed at the outside world, her hands clenching.
ooc: could she be a half-demon?
ooc- sure thing! I love the idea of that.
ic- Finally, the arrived at the mansion. The guard hauled open the door and Maron stepped out, then turned and extended his hand to help Sarala out. He smiled charmingly at her.
Sarala stiffened slightly, but took his hand still the same. Her eyes were wary as she stepped out of the carriage. Her dog ears were flattened, hidden from anyone's view. They blended into her soft midnight ebony hair, only white tips faintly poking through. She always hid the fact she was a hanyou.
"Now," Maron said as he led her up the steps of the mansion, leaning heavily on his cane. "The first person you're going to meet is Jasper. Don't be disconcerted about his attitude. He never smiles, but he's an outstanding-" suddenly, he stopped speaking and began to cough violently, bending over as he held a hand to his mouth.
The hanyou immmediately rushes to support him, worry clear in her gaze now. Her ears flicking up quickly before vanishing aain as she cocked her head, asking in her silent way if something was wrong. She was clearly worried now.
Maron waved her off, hiding his now bloodstained hand. "Simple cough. Had it since I was a child. Lung problems, you know." He jerked his head towards the mansion. "Let's get going again, shall we?"
"Yes, sir." the hanyou replied, her ears perking again and she forgot about them. All the sounds were rushing around her as she stared at him, following into the mansion and staring in wonder at the place. It was amazing!
"Come, this way," Maron said, leading her down the hall and into the kitchens. A fat old man stood there in a chefs hat, shouting orders at hapless cooks and serving girls. "Ah, Febritso," Maron called out. The fat man turned and scowled at him. "I have thirty minutes to get his heap of a kitchen into order fro luncheon, Master Maron. This had better be good." No slave had ever been so brazen to their master in Sarala's experience, but Maron just smiled. "I have a new serving girl for you," he said, indicating Sarala. Febritso turned his scowl on her, his brow furrowed in annoyance.
Sarala tilted her head, ears flicking uncertainly before bowing low to the cook "Pleasure to meet you sir." she murmured softly, rising, but keeping her eyes respectfully lowered, not looking at anyone. She suddenly remembered her ears and they flattened against her head in a milisecond. She murmured a soft apology.
Fabritso frowned even more. "Master Maron, if you insiston bringing home so many young girls, you may as well make an official harem instead of putting on thispathetic masquerade." Maro flushed bright red. "Fabritso! You know thatisnt what this is about!"
Sarala kept her mouth shut. She respected the young lord, though not sure about anyone else. She would behave though, she refused any expression in her gaze as she stared at the floor, awaiting for any job she could do. Her ears itched to be freed and twitching at the new place, though she managed to keep them flattened against her head. This took years of practice for the girl.