RP:Ownership of a Priestess

Kelay Tavern Akor’a sits in silence, legs crossed and pointed outward from her chair where she simply was told to observe.

Vlontyrr steps into the tavern in equal silence, swathed in his black piwafwi, his head covered by a dark hood that conceals his face in shadow. He glances over at Akora, studying the other drow wordlessly.

Akor’a was supposed to be on the lookout for weak-minded individuals and gain some sort of trust for a meeting with her Patron master. She was not supposed to come across another Drow of another House who was outlined in the bright of day until doors close solidly behind him. She does not make eye contact with the other, the brand of the House Fuer'yonii d'Aphyon burned into her right arm would quickly explain why.

Vlontyrr notices the brand, of course, although it takes him a moment to recognize it. His cloak is fastened with the symbol of his own house, D'Jiv'undus, one of the ruling houses, and matriarchal. He moves to take a seat nearby, still studying the woman, waiting to see what she might say or do.

Akor’a was dressed minimally, a requirement of her new master that she may be in a position of humiliation when on display to prove his ownership; it guaranteed the fresh brand would be seen by all who passed her. She inched that side of her person away from the other; his prying eyes irritating her to no end. Scarlet hues dart daringly to his visage and pursed lips argued the point she wanted to say something but wouldn’t. She saw his symbol, and the only thing it meant to her was that his House ranked far above her House; and in her House a slave did not speak unless spoken to.

Vlontyrr turns his face more fully toward the slave, his hood slipping back enough to reveal his glimmering red eyes behind a mask of pale leather, marked with lines and dots in dark red. Under the cloak, the drow seems to be clad in more of the same strange leather. Resting his elbows on the chair's arms, he steeples his hands together. "It is either a very confident or very foolish person that leaves their property on display, unattended. I wonder which it is."

Akor’a was inclined to offer a few choice words on what she thought of fools and confidence, she chooses wisely to repeat neither offense. Instead she replies “The master of the house would have to answer for himself, I am neither qualified nor ranked high enough to take a position. Nor am I stupid enough to assume a position that would put my House in any other’s sights over the matter.”

Vlontyrr smiles behind his mask, and draws a knife from within the folds of his cloak. The long skinning blade flashes with reflected light as the weapons master turns it over and over, idly. "I suppose I could always take the property, to find out which it is. If it is a foolish man, then he deserves death. If it is a confident man, then I may well enjoy breaking the confidence." He speaks as if to himself, staring at the knife. His gaze flicks up to the slave once more, however, and he adds, "I certainly could find a use for you."

Akor’a ’s eyes were on him quite daringly, focused on his redcast glare in the most respectful manner privy to one of their kind. He spoke of ‘use’ and it made her shift uneasily in her seat. She was lucky thus far not having been made ‘use’ of, more to the point she was oft referred to as useless. Her journey from the cage to her current court was brief, though fresh in her mind and she felt her next words should have been chosen wisely, lest she be made ‘use’ of in this male’s House or worse, returned to her own after such a grave failure. “Or you could not take what is not yours for the taking.” She would rise from her seat coolly and make her way to the door. She would return empty handed, but in fact she would return and not risk punishment for her efforts.

Vlontyrr 's eyes take on a cruel light. "Everything is mine for the taking, slave. Particularly from a house such as yours, that barely merits a mention in Trist'oth's annals. You may go, but sometime soon I will return for what is mine, and it will go worse for you then than it would have today."

Akor’a would cast him a devious stare, more accusing than her rank should have entitled her to. “You say it as if today’s hell is any different from tomorrow’s.” She did not defend her house, at this point they could both see where the cards lay. Her words were marked with a hatred of any and all houses, including her own. A Priestess she was, and even if the threat of death was her current master she would welcome the sacrifice in the name of Vakmatharas. She would not pity him or the loss.

Vlontyrr gives a sibilant laugh, once again toying with the bared blade. "Little slave, what you have seen among the Fuer'yonii d'Aphyon is like a surface-dweller's nursery compared to the secrets that I could show you. 'Today's hell'? No, I have learned things, seen things, -done- things that bring such a delight of agony, such a rich poetry of pain...your mind could not comprehend, even if you wished it." He rises from his seat with the lithe grace of a born fighter, hardened in the crucible of the Underdark. When he speaks again, the amusement his previous words held is gone, replaced by cold, murderous hatred. "In my House, though, slaves know to keep their insolent eyes on the ground, else they lose them."

Akor’a was never one to fight her nature for long, that mouth of hers landing her in many predicaments such as this. “Lucky then, this is not your House.” Her eyes did not falter. She stood her ground, though a stubborn mistake it might prove to be, it was not in her to simply back away. The sparse attire did everything to prove she had no devices for defense yet she stood there still.

Vlontyrr reaches to his belt, pulling free a wicked-looking whip. "Kneel," he commands, sounding more bored than angry. "I am sure that your master has not trained you as he should, so I will spare your eyes for that alone. But you must still be punished for your insolence. Kneel, accept what you deserve, and thank me for it when I have finished." He lets the whip uncoil, giving a swift flick of his wrist to ensure that the pale leather lash is not tangled.

Akor’a’s eyes befall the weapon of punishment and she refuses to kneel. Unsure of what protocols were withstanding at this point she viewed it as her house kneeling to his. Her master had owned her long enough to brand her and assign one simple task. In the Cages she was simply starved for her insolence. She had never been whipped, she had never been made to kneel. Her flawless skin was proof of what she was meant to be slave for, aside from the gifts her past heritage gave her in concealing a small army; she was obviously supposed to be used for recreation. “A Priestess kneels to one Master.”

Vlontyrr 's wrist flicks out again, this time sending the lash out toward Akora's neck, the distance between them meaning that only the last foot or so of leather will reach her neck, meant to wrap around it like a painful, choking collar, so that the Secondboy can give a pull on his end of the lash, hard enough to bring the woman to her knees. "A slave kneels to all," he says, coldly.

Akor’a is brought to one knee, her small hand latching onto the painful chord about her neck and using it to hoist herself back up. Her efforts would not likely be rewarded as the whip remained entangled expertly, failing to relieve him of his leverage. Two hands pull her closer to him, the leash providing necessary advantage to clear half the distance in which she makes a poor decision to spit at his face. At very least, in this effort, the slack in the noose would prevent him from yanking her down a second time.

Vlontyrr turns his head to one side instinctively, his hood absorbing most of the spittle. He reacts without thought, stepping in to bridge the remainder of the gap to hammer the back of his free hand at Akora's face, meaning to connect with her mouth in a resounding slap, the force enough, hopefully, to knock her down again. Another wrist movement frees the whip from around her neck, and, should she drop to the floor from the backhand, he will follow, intent on holding her down with a knee on the back while using the whip as a cord to hogtie the slave.

Akor'a is indeed slapped, if not for her smaller than normal size the slap would have landed her sideways, but alas the slap was more than intended and landed the female on her back. If he did intend on tying her at all he would be met with weak flailing and angry curses, complete with sharpened nails digging at every scrap of flesh she could find; she was not made to fight, after all. The thick smear of blood on her mouth and the expression of sheer hatred toward him combined with the scant bit of cloth which by now was in some position of disarray would elicit some level of prey-like provocation from even the steeliest of males of their race.

Vlontyrr , now that he is close enough to grapple, keeps his head reared back to keep his eyes away from her nails, letting the leather that covers him from the sun's rays absorb the damage. Now that his piwafwi is thrown back, the leather can be seen more clearly; it is marked here and there with what appear to be tattoos, marked in the flesh while it was yet alive. Vlontyrr is not blind to the sight before him; indeed it only causes him to renew his efforts to bind the woman. Since hogtying seems more difficult now, he attempts to loop a length of the whip around Akora's wrists, bringing his wiry strength to bear as he tries to restrain his prey.

Akora's right wrist is looped, and then just as expertly the left followed. Her legs would squirm from under his form and the ankle-length mass of hair entangled itself in a twisted pile beneath her still. “Unhand me!” She had little fight left in her as she was simply overpowered due to her frail-for-a-Drowess form; there was little she could have done, especially now that her hands had been bound. She uses her restrained wrists to lift her upper portion in hopes to bite his knuckles as a last attempt to free herself from his grasp.

Vlontyrr secures the whip in one hand, letting the other flash forward to grasp at Akora's face, meaning to grab her around the chin and jaw in a vise-like grip, squeezing hard in hopes of forcing more blood to flow from her split lip, keeping her teeth away. He stares at her silently for a moment, his red eyes alight with the joy of the fight, however brief and one-sided it was. "You are mine now," he says quietly. "I should kill you for what you dared to do, but I am sure there are more amusing ways to make you pay. I think I will enjoy breaking you." He stands then, meaning to haul her up with him. "Come, let us go home," he says, his sadistic smile, though hidden by the mask, showing through in his voice.

Derrin was getting tired of the antics of his Priestess, stalking through the filth of the overworld was degrading, by passers touching in. It was disgusting. Last night he had gone to the healer and gotten his broken arm repaired, while at the same time for the sake of the attempt to capture a high elf he had cut his hair short and donned different clothing. However now he wore the robes of his house, his house emblazoned across his left shoulder. Over his face he wore a mask that hooked over the nose allowing only his yellow eyes -implying the pure blood was sick-and his chin-length white hair. When he entered the tavern every step had purpose, his pride refined yet he showed no sign of arrogance. Weapons could not be seen on his person, expertly hidden among the many folds of the robes but in his right hand he dragged two chains. Each one extended a good ten feet behind him, wreathed in necrotic blue fire. On the other end would be his two house pet wargs, standing at six feet the two of them on all fours and at least eight feet long. Several hundred pounds of rippling muscle and ferocity, the very symbol of their house; Beasts of Death. It was with disdain that he saw his priestess had gotten herself into such a situation. Anger boiled within him but he would not show it. "Release her." Was all the male said, the two beasts taking up post at his side, very well blocking the door and preventing them from just leaving.

Akora growls lowly at him, a guttural ’I will kill you in your sleep’ growl as a thick river of blood drains down her chin and over his grip. When the familiar sound of another chimes she is no more welcoming to that voice than Vlontyrr’s own.

Vlontyrr allows his gaze to flick over to Derrin, noting his House insignia. The weapons master straightens, revealing his own insignia; that of House D'Jiv'undus. "You do not give orders to me," the Secondboy says, shocked by the lack of proper protocol. "Return to your little House, and pray that I do not crush it like an insect for your impertinance." He lets go of Akora's face, but retains a grip on the lash, the other end of which binds her hands. "This one belongs to me, for daring to assault me. I suggest, Fuer'yonii d'Aphyon, that in the future, you train your slaves better. I will ensure that this one does not repeat her mistake."

Derrin shook his head slowly, stepping forward until he was standing right next to the two of them. Anfauglir and Fenrir were standing at the ready, waiting for the weapons master to make a move so that they could rip him in half. Grasping the mask he pulled it just past his lips. "She is far too much of a hassle to be worth my time." A twisted grin formed on his lips as he lowered himself and gripped her at the chin to force her to look at him. "You will get what you deserve, I have not had time to deal with you but they will I'm sure.." he then looked at the other male as he stood, replacing the mask over his face. "Your words mean nothing on my ears; you can have her for now. Consider it a gift." He would not waste his time with threats like the other did; it wasn't his style after all. Instead he would plot, placing plans within plans that ultimately led to his greater goals. Leaving her and him behind he turned and left the tavern with his wargs in tow.

Akor’a’s face is released and so she pulls away from him as much as he would allow. She mumbles some unnatural curse but just so hushed neither of them would note to whom it was addressed. With all hopes neither of these bastards would want her and she could flee, but to where was unknown.

Vlontyrr smiles behind his own mask, dismissing Derrin and his dogs as easily as another man might dismiss a buzzing fly. He turns to Akor’a once more. "You see, for all his bold words, your former master knows his place. Now, I will train you to behave properly. We will start with a name. You will of course call me master. I will call you Slime. It is a fitting name for a slave, and you will answer to it from now on." He tugs on the makeshift leash, heading toward the door. "Come along, Slime. I grow tired of the surface."

Akor’a is regrettably tugged to her feet which follow as slowly as possible behind Vlontyrr. In passing Derrin she hisses audibly, bearing her teeth like she would rip him apart for just being there. Her actions no doubt would earn her a positively violent yank from her new Master. Quite honestly, in the midst of all their plots and plans, she did accomplish one goal. A slave in a higher house is better than a master in a lesser one. A small smile is veiled in the shadow of Vlontyrr’s wake.