Dancing in the Shadows (Part 1)

[Degenero Angelus]

The auctioneer put a hand on her arm as she stepped up to the block, as if to help her. She pulled away coldly. She could see from the lascivious twinkle in his eye and his sadistic grin that the block wasn't what he wanted her to mount. She stepped up herself, without letting expression cross her face. Despite her efforts to keep herself aloof, she could feel the hated burning in her green eyes. A murmur of appreciation rose from the crows, along with the laughing and jeering voices of men.

 

“Item number forty-eight,” the auctioneer announced. He was a short, fat man, bald as an egg, with a red, shiny face. Humans would probably consider him fatherly, which somehow made him even more repulsive to her. “Elf stock. Goes by the name of Rowan. Five foot three, a hundred and twenty two pounds, every bit of it muscle. Very pretty, even for one of their breed. Fifty-four years old, young for one of them. Good health, fine constitution. No diseases!” With a casual motion he ripped the scanty linen shift from her body so the crows could see all of that they were buying. The jeers rose to a near-deafening roar.

 

Rowan refused to let her cheeks warm, not for them. She forced the blood out of her face. No shame, no humiliation, and no fear. These curs fed on that like vultures on rotten meat.

 

The auctioneer reached out a hands and turned her around, allowing the crows to see her from all angles. Screams of delight rose from the men. She allowed herself to be turned, putting up a struggle would be a futile waste of energy and dignity.

 

Still, her face was an expressionless mask. Her back straight, shoulders strong. She would not let them think her docile, submissive, or broken. Most of the men in the throng were warriors – they recognized a fighting stance when they saw one. A few of the jeers died away.

 

As she turned back to face them, the silence spread a little farther as they noticed the cold hatred in her eyes. They were the eyes of someone ready to kill, and capable of doing it. They were not the eyes if a slave. However, most of the crowd continued their catcalls nearly maddened with the sight of small, but perfect breasts, fine delicate hips, and firm thighs and buttocks. They didn't see the hate-filled eyes, only the body beneath them.

 

She passed her icy eyes over the mob of bestial men, focusing briefly on each one to show she hated them personally, not simply as part of the crowd. Brutes, humans were. Animals – less than animals. Animals didn't butcher populations of other animals and take the survivors as slaves. Male animals didn't take female animals unwilling.

 

As her eyes reached the back of the crowd, she felt her breath catch in her throat. She forced herself to breathe evenly, to bite down on the roar of fury rising in her chest. It was Helkath. Manly Helkath, with the strength of a lion, and the soul of a jackal. He saw her look at him, and gave her a leer accompanied by a salacious wink. His brown eyes drifted lazily along her body.

 

Angrily, she pulled her gaze from him and continued to scan the crowd. She wouldn't look at him any longer than the others – he didn't merit the attention. She wanted him to think his little “conquest” didn't matter to her, that it was forgotten. It gave him less room to gloat. She felt the heat rise to her face, and angrily forced it back. She would not flush with shame. She would NOT!

 

Regardless of the fact that her eyes wandered, her mind remained fixed on Helkath. Questions she wanted to snap at him in cold, painful scorn flashed through her mind. Are you enjoying the view, Helkath? Are you liking what you're seeing, for the second time? How does it feel to look and not be able to touch? How does it feel to stare at the legs you forced apart, the breasts you bruised and mutilated with your brutish, clutching hands?

 

How does it feel to be the only living human who has ever heard me scream?

Edited May 18, 2003 by Degenero Angelus

[Precocity13]

You wrote:

 

As she turned back to face them, the silence spread a little farther as they noticeed the cold hatred in her eyes. They were the eyes of someone ready to kill, and capable of doing it. They were not the eyes if a slave. However, most of the crowd continued their catcallsm nearly maddened with the sight of small, but perfect breasts, fine delicate hips, and firm thights and buttocks. They didn't see the hate-filled eyes, only the body beneath them.

 

Can you see your problem? Did they, or did they NOT, see the hatred in her eyes? You're contradicting yourself.

 

As for the name Rowan, it's overused. Think of more original names. (Though it may be because an online friend has had the handle "Rowan" and "Ruadhan" for years).

 

The idea is a good one... interesting plot (for a short-short). I'd enjoy reading more.

 

When you write, keep it simple. In some places, it appears you throw in "big words" just because you can. Rely less on the thesaurus/dictionary, and write what pops into your head.

 

Nice start, though.

Edited May 15, 2003 by Precocity13

[Alaeha]

I... think I like this.

 

I like the character, from what I've seen of her, and though the writing itself is unclear at the point mentioned above, this is still well done. I think it's just the situation I find somewhat distasteful.

 

I liked the bit about animals though... I'd say this is a fine beginning to a story.

[Degenero Angelus]

(Some of them saw the eyes, most didn't. I mentioned that some of them noticed things like that earlier in the story, I believe. Also, this is my world, I get to say what the animals do and do not do )

 

 

Part two.

 

(Some of them saw the eyes, most didn't. I mentioned that some of them noticed things like that earlier in the story, I believe. Also, this is my world, I get to say what the animals do and do not do )

 

 

Part two.

 

“This, as you can see, is one of the finest,” the auctioneer said smoothly. “Shall we start the bidding at 700 gold?”

 

So, 700 is all I'm worth, eh? The price of a particularly good piece of horseflesh. Rowan's lip curled in disgust.

 

“Seven hundred,” Helkath called, giving Rowan another sickening grin.

 

“Eight hundred!” a harsh voice shouted from somewhere in the middle of the crowd.

 

“Eight-fifty.” A third contender, lean and strong as a blade, gave her a cool, appraising look. Like a farmer studying livestock. It took effort to keep her face blank.

 

“Hey, gentlemen!” the auctioneer was clearly dismayed at the thought of not milking them for all they were worth. “Are we to increase our bids by mere fifty-gold increments? This slave is the best we have. Young, beautiful, and strong, for an elf. In perfect health-”

 

“And mine.”

 

A gasp rippled through the audience as they turned to face the figure by the door. They parted like a waterfall around a rock, trying to get as far away from the newcomer. Despite herself, Rowan looked too.

 

It was a tall humanoid in black velvet robes, impossibly gaunt. His hood was pulled low over his face, cloaking his features in shadow, but Rowan could see his wasted, too-pale hands folded neatly in front of him.

 

Those were not the hands of a human or an elf, Rowan realized in growing horror. No human was so emaciated, and no elf was so tall. Those were the hands of a shadow-wraith.

 

Shadow-wraiths were the chosen emissaries of the Shadow Lord himself. The necromancer and avatar of Triax, god of death and undeath, had many monsters in his army that were to be feared, but shadow-wraiths were among the worst. Other undead creatures who served him had been dead, not making the active choice of becoming something even less than human, or fully living, clinging to what little remained of their souls. Shadow-wraiths were men and women who had freely chosen to give a part of their souls away to become something trapped between life and undeath, an ultimate blasphemy against life itself, the most efficient servants of the Shadow Lord. They were, quite literally, his eyes, ears, and mouthpiece - what they saw and heard, he saw and heard.

 

And one of them had come for Rowan.

 

She heard the slaver babble an inanity about the joy of serving the Shadow Lord, felt one of his flabby fingers prod her off the block and toward the emissary of her new master. In a daze, Rowan stumbled forward, too numb with terror to don her mask of stone. Beneath the black hood, she saw the shadow-wraith's pale, bloodless lips curve into a frozen smile.

 

And Helkath was no longer the only living human to hear her scream.

 

-----

 

Korath glanced up from the letter he was penning with a sigh of irritation. So that was the caterwaul that his brother had made such a point of gloating over, audible even through the thick stone wall. Hardly seemed like anything to cheer about, really. A woman's scream was a woman's scream. He had made enough women wail and sob and beg for mercy that their shrieks all began to run together, after a time. Not in the same coarse and uncreative manner as Helkath preferred, but . . . Korath shrugged slightly. To each his own.

 

"What is that bastard doing to her?" a voice growled at him from the floor.

 

Korath glanced down under the table to the half-elf. Even chained like a dog, she still managed to glare at him with a degree of righteous fury. She was not as strong as the elf, perhaps, but breaking the hybrid would still certainly provide a challenge. "Either she's met her new master, or Helkath is enjoying his sport within full public view this time."

 

Falaisa's face twisted into a snarl, and he could see her starting to form a word of magic on her lips. Almost reflexively, he made a thrusting motion toward her throat with his dagger. "Do you want to lose your tongue, hybrid?"

 

"You're as bad as a shadow-wraith," she muttered, resettling beneath the table and trying to make herself comfortable - no mean feat when chained by the neck to a table leg on a stone floor. "You have no soul. None."

 

"I leave matters of spirit to the clerics." Korath wasn't really listening to the mage's pathetic insults anymore, such as they were. He had heard them all on the first leg of their journey. What he was paying attention to was the activity inside the auctioning chamber - which, he noticed, no longer included the elf's screams. He would doubtless be seeing both her and his brother in a very short time.

 

-----

 

Rowan clapped her hands over her mouth to silence her own cries. She had never been so terrified in her life. She had faced minions of the Shadow Lord before, had killed them whenever possible, but this was the first time any had actually taken a personal interest in her. This was certainly the first time the Shadow Lord himself had taken a personal interest in her!

 

"Why did you choose to sell my property to the highest bidder, Helkath?" the shadow-wraith asked, speaking with its master's voice.

 

Helkath shifted uncomfortably. "Milord, elves are useless to you. You can't bring 'em back like you can with humans or hy--half-elves. I thought--"

 

"Your job is not to think, Helkath. Your job is to listen to my orders, and to obey them." Helkath cringed, a dog about to be whipped by his master. "Korath informed me of your delinquency. Evidently, stupidity does not necessarily breed true in your bloodline."

 

Rowan swallowed, finally finding her voice. "What do you want with me?" Her level tone surprised even her. The Shadow Lord himself! Gods!

 

The shadow-wraith looked back at her, bloodless lips curving into a mockery of a smile once more. "All will be revealed." He touched her cheek, and it was all Rowan could do not to shudder. There was no more warmth or life in that wasted hand than in a corpse. "Sleep."

 

Oblivion struck Rowan with an almost physical force, and she slumped to the ground.

Edited May 18, 2003 by Degenero Angelus