The Drow Queen of Glaley [Very NSFW]

[Shiori]

Shiori nods. "I can handle a month," she croaks. 

[NPCs]

"Good," Emiko said firmly. "So, umm, do you wanna hear about what happened at Juko-san's birthday dinner? Or do you want to rest?"

[Shiori]

"Please," she whispers. "I'd love to hear about normal things."

[NPCs]

Face glowing, Emiko gratefully took a seat in the chair Jass quickly located. "Well then! I have so much gossip and mundane matters I can ramble on about."

[GamesMaster]

Primera and Segunda weren't taking the loss of their mother bvery well. Not that anyone ever does, I suppose, but in this case both are too young to bear up with any dignity. Primera has taken to throwing a full-on tantrum every night about how she wants her mummy and mother won't do, only mummy, where is she, bring her back. 

Segunda had escaped much of this, but tonight her own brand of suffering makes itself plain: "Is Mummy under the pink tree?"

It takes Jessi a few moments to figure out what she means. There's a sakura tree in the gardens, on a little hill side overlooking the pond, and there are two grey slate stones out there, one with a horse carved into it, the other with a cradle. Mistress Coquette had said one was for a beloved pet and the other a late miscarriage, both before the girls were born. 

[Jessica Alton]

One of the reasons it took Jessi those minutes to catch on was simply that Jessi's last few months have been so very terrible. She could almost deal with the tantrums; even at her brattiest, Primera was a good girl. She screamed and wept and hid under her bed, but she didn't break things, hit people, or even say nasty things. The additional headaches and lost sleep were... unwelcome, for sure, but Jessi simply figured that was part of the price of loving two endlessly toddler-aged girls. 

Really, it was just the rape and beatings that were so very taxing.

"Whaa-- no. No, no, no, no, honey," Jessi poured out, sweeping the sunshine-haired girl into her arms. "Baby, no. Your Mummy is--  she's just away. On a trip, like your Mother has done so many times before." Even after all this time, she couldn't decide if Coquette being gone filled her with more hatred or more envy. 

[GamesMaster]

"Is she ever coming back?"

[Jessica Alton]

"I..." Have no idea and don't even know how I would find out. "...hope so, yes. How about we do a little prayer to Bastion, for family?"

[GamesMaster]

Segunda glances past Jessi to the corner, where a woman stands silent, watching them. "I don't like her." 

[Jessica Alton]

"Shhh," Jessi whispered quickly. "Remember the rules, my precious girl; only say nice things about people." That's the end of Varisia's rule, but Jessica added even quieter, "Unless..." She can't say something like that in a public area. It's so hard for her to remember, but she has to learn she can only say things like that in her bedroom, when it's just the two of us. Well, Primera is fine too.

[GamesMaster]

"I don't have nice things to say about her." The woman doesn't seem offended; she doesn't seem anything, really, just standing there, staring blankly at them. She's wearing only a short skirt and a heavy collar, her breasts exposed to the air to show the scarring from her latest punishment. Or maybe her worst punishment. It's hard to tell. Jessie isn't even sure her name; the slaves that make up the bulk of the household staff now are pretty much interchangeable. None of them have half the initiative Nathaniel does. 

[Jessica Alton]

"Then don't say anything at all," Jessica instructed her firmly, a note of fear slipping into her voice. They might not speak to hear or the girls, but she knows damn well they report to Varisia.

[GamesMaster]

"'Kay." Segunda gives a little sigh, snuggling into her blanket. "Ninight Nanny Jessie, Wuv you."

[Jessica Alton]

Heart melting instantly, Jessi pulls the precious child just a bit closer. "Blessed dreams, little one." I can hold out still. It's... it's not so bad I have to leave. Not yet. They need me.

[GamesMaster]

Krem wipes the back of his wrist across his mouth, but it only serves to smear the blood, sweat, and tears gathered there. He pauses a moment -- but only a moment -- to consider his options.

There was no winning this fight. There ought to have been cheering crowds for a fight like this -- a fight Bull would have won. No matter. Winning is out of the question, has been from the start. No, Krem lost the moment he let himself get pushed into this matchup at all.

Even fighting dirty wouldn't help. Worse, if he goes all-out she'll know the precise nature of his limits, know just how hard she has to push to take him out. His only advantage now is the fact he is doomed to lose, so why go all-out in the first place? But he can't obviously throw the match, either. That would displease the Mistress.

Her man approached, swinging a long chain studded with little barbs around like it's a child's toy. Running out of time. His inner narration sounds nothing like himself, and everything like the only man he respects. Fighting dirty wouldn't hurt because he wasn't sure the slave felt pain anymore, not after what Sia had done to him. Or, paid to have done. She wouldn't sully her own hands with the work. The man is bald and short, with an elaborate dragon tattood over his face and head as though it were cresting some mountain, staring him in the face. Even his eyelids were tattood. He wore steel-toed boots -- had to be careful, a kick too many from those and his ribs would puncture his lung.

That's it, then. That's the way forward. Lose, but do everything you can to protect your soft spots. If he pulls this off, he'll be functional again in a day or two instead of weeks. Protect the head. Careful the upper ribs -- lower ribs are alright. The weapon favored ripping and tearing of flesh, but that was a boon too, in its way, for torn flesh healed faster than broken bone.

It would hurt. It would hurt a lot. That didn't, couldn't, matter. Krem could see a way through this that let him save some measure of dignity without revealing all his secrets.

Don't forget to scream if he hits you in the crotch, Bull tells Krem, and Krem nods, committing that to memory. Time to lose, boyo.


Krem collapsed to the dirt in the courtyard. He could go no further, not with his wounds. Consciousness was fading quickly. Pure animal instinct had sent him to go to ground in the area least full of her slaves -- the male's building. Well, the husbands' building, anyway; male servants slept in the servants quarters in the shittiest rooms. The husbands lived like pretty birds in gilded cages. Maybe their fine silks could be used to bind his wounds, their luxurious tubs to clean him. Or at least, to hide him from view until he can stand on his own two feet again.

The last thing he sees before he faints is Nathaniel's curious green eyes, peering down at him from a high-up window.