RP:Bowing to a New Master

House D'Jiv'undus _{Housed within one of the largest and most impressive stalagmites in all Trist'Oth, House D'Jiv'undus is spectacular to look upon. Faerie fire decorates it all the way to its peak, which is nestled close to the roof of the cavernous opening making up the dark elf city. Twin gates engraved with images of The Spider Goddess guard the grounds, as well as an army of both living and dead dark elves, the latter courtesy of its Elderboy. The formidable House sits high within Trist'Oth's complicated rulership, and as such few linger outside for long. Many eyes watch any who come close to the gates and it is not unheard of for even Drow to fall victim to bolts before words; curiously, no bodies have ever been recovered. If you are uninvited, now would be the time to leave, lest you wish to join the Elderboy's ranks as an eternal servant of House D'Jiv'undus.}

Vlontyrr leads Slime in through the gates of his House, unchallenged as he is recognized by the guards. He leads the slave into a room that is bare of decoration, its walls adorned only by chains, lit by the flickering light of braziers. A metal table occupies the center of the room, the stones under it stained a dark reddish-brown. Vlontyrr pushes Akora toward it, with a curt order to wait there. He locks the door, then moves to the only other piece of furniture in the room: a desk, its surface covered by neat rows of unpleasant looking tools. He unlocks a drawer, and begins searching in it.

Akor’a is shaking now, wondering if her antics may have put her in the position to be dismantled. By now the male would have guessed she was not raised in their society, by now he would have smelled the stench of crisp fresh air that oozed from her like poison to his senses. She hid her trembling hands well enough, regretting the debris that entangled itself in near floor-length trusses akin to her practice. Scarlet hues follow every movement he makes in hopes to decipher his plans before she succumbs to them. She does wait, as told, her obedience proving she knows who she belongs to now. Despite all her efforts she assumed she would be sacrificed at this table, and her eyes close to that conclusion that she will have served the purpose of her deity.

Vlontyrr at last finds what he is looking for; a collar, made of the same pale leather as his own armor, and a matching leash. He approaches the table, reaching out to deftly clasp the collar around his new slave's neck. He steps back and, safe now from the painful sunlight above, removes his mask, taking a deep breath of the air that, while likely smelling stale to an outsider like Slime, refreshes and nourishes Vlontyrr. His features bear the refined look that marks him as a noble, with haughty cheekbones and a narrow nose, his skin unblemished aside from the occasional scar. He looks for a long while at his new property, as if weighing just what he intends to do with her.

Akor’a opens her eyes to his footsteps and lifts her chin so he may more easily attach his mark of ownership, this collar being far less painful than the branding enforced upon her arm days prior. The worst part is she still expected a pain to rival that which was marked upon her already. She says nothing, her eyes now cast downward to his middle to be sure that eye contact is clearly not being made and deliberately so. She would remain silent as when he first met her, the rule still standing that she would not speak unless spoken to.

Vlontyrr 's gaze flicks to that brand, and he shakes his head. "Such a crude form of marking. It will have to come off." He moves closer, taking the branded arm in a firm grip, and moving to strap it tightly to the table. "It is unfortunate that I must do this, as there will be a scar, but I cannot have you running about with that mark on you, not now that you belong to me." He draws his knife, the same one as before, and touches the cold metal to the slave's skin, just above the brand. "Do not struggle," he orders.

Akor’a’s eyes are wide with fear, did he plan to? Oh yes, he did… She squeezes her eyes shut and bites down hard on her split lip, suckling the blood from it as a sort of distraction for what barbaric act was to follow. Her right arm is helpless in his grip as she is crouched around the corner of the metal table. As soon as his motion was carried out sharp nails would dig into the leathers on his leg, this of course could not be helped as it was an unconscious movement on her part. She would not, however, cry out like some helpless pale Elf, or worse… a Human.

Vlontyrr does not seem to notice her nails digging into his leg; he is far too focused on his work. Removing his gloves for better control of the blade, he slips the point of the knife easily into the skin, turned at an angle so that it doesn't dig into the muscle below. He moves it along in a sort of short, sawing motion, carving out a small square of skin that entirely surrounds the brand. Reaching out with his other hand, he takes hold of one bloody corner, deftly sliding the knife further in to free the scrap of skin from her arm, pulling it free to release a flow of blood that gives her remaining skin a red wash before pooling on the table. The drow's red eyes glint hungrily, and the knife returns to hover above the gory patch of exposed flesh. Vlontyrr draws in a slow breath, a slight tremor running through his body in his excitement, his fingers, covered in blood, running over the square of skin in a near trance.

Akor’a had been branded, flayed, punched, slapped, and prodded… all in the last two nights. Her body, unlike her spirit, had had enough. She nearly chokes on the pain, her own blood pooled and then dripping from the table to stain her perfectly white trusses as he gawks at his accomplishment. She tugs her arms roughly, forgetting it was now affixed to the table. She couldn’t keep her breath steady, but still she would not cry out. Her growl though, deep an guttural, complained unwittingly to the destruction of her marred flesh.

Vlontyrr is stirred from his reverie at the sound, and he tears his gaze from the bleeding wound. He pries her grip loose, freeing his leg, and returns to the desk. He gently sets the scrap of skin down, and cleans and sheaths his knife, before gathering a few more things from the desk drawer. Returning to the bound slave's side, he apples a paste to the wound, knowing full well that the action will only cause more pain. It is necessary, however, and he completes the process by binding a strip of cloth around the area. It is only then that he releases the arm, giving the slave a pat on the head, like a dog. "You did well, Slime. If I am lucky, the skin will grow back with little scarring. Scars are unsightly, and I cannot imagine what use you would be if you are unsightly."

Akor’a would be lucky to feel anything at this point, most of her senses shutting down over sheer overflow of the sensory system. Her head would loll backward, thin slits producing the tiniest slivers of crimson fading behind darkened purple lids. Her perfectly jagged teeth are coated in her own blood, the proof of it still being produced by the seeping wound splitting full lips. In this ignorant bliss she utters weak curses to him over slow half-blinks as his patting shifts her whole visionary world to a dizzying thump, thump, thump. When her arm is finally released the chain reaction lands her doubled over, her head hitting the floor at her knees quite solidly. It would seem she could kneel after all.

Vlontyrr takes a moment to appreciate the scene before him, the smile on his lips as cruel as his eyes. After a moment, he crosses to the door. Unlocking it, he summons other slaves, who enter with downcast eyes to gather up the pain-wracked woman, carting her off to clean her up and find her a place to rest. Vlontyrr returns to his desk, beginning the painstaking process of preserving the piece of skin with salt and spells, his malicious chanting filling the otherwise silent room.