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Post by lydia iver on Jul 22, 2011 12:42:14 GMT -8
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Lydia was a bit frightened. She was already a meek kind of soul, and found herself some level of frightened on a normal day to day basis. She tended to be, though. Lydia was a frightful creature, and she had never been very good at hiding it, what with the way her speech slipped up sometimes, and she was horrible at making eye contact with others. And the hustle and bustle of the slave markets really did frighten her. Everything was so... loud... and busy. Lydia liked calmer situations much more, situations where she could relax, where things were quiet and still. She rarely got them, but that didn’t mean she didn’t like them. She ached for them. She strived for solitude. Well, not really solitude so much as... just a simple sense of relaxation. That’s not what was here, however. Her body shook a little. The slave trade was so... familiar, almost. What a horrible realization. She hated that something so tiring and taxing and scary was familiar to her, but Lydia had been here before. Time and time again, like she was damaged goods and needed returning. Pawned off, forgotten, traded. What horrendous words and how truthful they were in their application. Maybe the Serval could have wondered what she had done to deserve this, but she didn’t. Her little body had these small tremors, small little hurricanes reserved to their own separate muscles, but they displayed how much she didn’t enjoy being here. She was frightened, simply. It was too obvious, too evident in her attitude that she didn’t like standing in front of so many cats.
Because they came in throngs, parades, like it was a large event that everyone needed to see. This was an attraction, like a sick kind of circus. Lydia was the clown, with her sadness painted on her face, coerced to perform with pokes and prods at the others’ baited breath. Lydia felt in a separate world from the rest of them. There was a wall made out of something she couldn’t explain that kept her from feeling or connected with any of these other creatures. She had scarcely spoken in months, and now was clearly not the time to start. Now was the time to slink into the shadows of others. She felt the leopards’, and the lions’, and tigers’ hot breath billowing around her. They were hungry for what she could do, even if Lydia herself didn’t know what that was. Maybe work herself to death without complaint? She had a history of doing that. But no one seemed to value that in her, these days. Sticky around her, she blinked. Maybe it was just the summer air, though. Not salvation on tongues, but humidity on the wind. Sometimes her imagination could work her up like that. Lydia didn’t like feeling as if she was on show, though. It bothered her. To watch people walk by with their keen eyes, over looking her like a piece of meet. To hear them converse aloud about her physical attributes. It scared her, sometimes, because Lydia didn’t know what they would like and what they didn’t. And what if they liked something in a... disturbing way? She’d be beside herself.
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ooc; someone needs to take good care of her though
wah poor baby [/size][/color][/blockquote][/td][/tr][tr][td]  [/td][/tr][/table] |
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Post by damask arei on Jul 27, 2011 15:19:04 GMT -8
[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: dddddd; border: #cccccc solid 8px; width: 420px; padding: 15 5 15 5px;]Damask Arei  the sea moves like silk but I only hear the crash The Words: 680 The Tags: Lydia The Notes I promise to make these quicker!
Damask weaves his way through the bustle of the market. He trades feigned smiles with the courtiers and entertainers he meets, as his paws slowly pick their way through. He wishes he doesn't have to complete this task, but he must fulfill his mother's wishes. Tuh, his mother. If she wasn't the royal queen of the village, he would spit on the very market floor to show what he thinks of her current wish. His mind plays back to the very scene that has brought about this trip through the bazaar.
He remembers it began when his servants had left in a huff after he refused their assistance for the umpteenth time. They had apparently complained of such to his father, which yielded no reaction. Then they sought out his mother, who had insisted if paid helpers could do no good, then slaves were the answer… And now here he is, a lone bit of royalty skulking near the slave market. He knows he is loitering about far too long, but he procrastinates on his arrival. Unlike the rich snobs who strut about the court whilst trailed by their dozen handfuls of poorly treated slaves, he finds the slavery deal a little sickening. He fares well and manages to keep his opinions in check when around Grace's personal slaves, mostly bordering on the fact that at least she treats them with some ounce of dignity.
Finally he decides to trot into the little circle of stalls labeled as the infamous Slave Market. A horrendous stench hits his nostrils as soon as he steps within its vicinity. His nose wrinkles a little, but he keeps his face blank of any disgusted emotion. Damask nods his formal little greetings at the slave merchants and managers. Their wide grins are twisted as they attempt to bow in respect to him. But how can they? For they are the lowest of their kind, they cannot bow any lower. Far lower than the slaves who hunker up in the shadows, their bodies pressed to the backs of their rusting cages, bearing scars that even the great tattooists cannot carve.
From the depths of the cages, the snow leopard can see a myriad of species – serval, tiger, lion, etc. He glances around furtively, and wishing to speed up the process, darts over to the nearest cage. It is a grimy construction, all a monotonous gray and peeling some strange material. Battered linen is carelessly draped over the top, but parted (or more appropriately, slashed) down the middle to allow potential customers to view the slave within. It is a jumble of upended wires and thick branches, held in place by great slabs of stone reeking some terrible stench. In fact, the entire thing gives off a particularly displeasing odor. Or perhaps such a smell emanates from the salesperson madly grinning away near it, his smile looking painted. Damask half expects the salesperson to just whip away the 'happy' looking mask from his face.
Inside this particular cage, a timid little slave shrinks against the far corner of the tiny space. It is a serval, though with the darkness of the confinement, he cannot discern what gender. His paw moves to part the curtained material a little more, allowing more light to soak its depths. It is then revealed that it was a rather pretty little female. He can't exactly say she is attractive or beautiful, more… fragile. Like just a little bit of slave work can break her. Perhaps that is why not so many important looking cats linger near her cage.
Ignoring the salesperson hovering near him (who is most likely gushing his or her – he didn't even give him/her a cursory glance – pleasure that such a royal feline as he has stopped by his stall), he peers into the cage. "Hello there. What are you called?" he inquires somewhat gruffly. He does not know whether to sound sweet and sympathetic or brutal and cruel. So his voice borders in between. Somehow the effect of either is just lost, and he merely sounds impatiently bored.
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