Yellow Little Farmhouse
Who: Simon Coibran NPCs: Keraer (Ashya), Naien Elsanti (Falina), Corithal Azatae (Viara) Where: Abandoned Farmhouse, Outside of Denerim When: 17 Molioris, before The Tevinter Contact subplot. (Part 1 of 3) Summary: Things are not looking up for Simon, nor are they for the elves that he's supposed to help. Frustrated by the lack of direct reinforcement from the Chantry, and with Keraer breathing down his neck, Simon struggles with the heavy knowledge that, likely, rescue will fall solely on his shoulders, or it won't come all. Rating: Mature. Dark Themes including slavery and trafficking.
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The Alienage was hours behind them. There were no sounds of the market, or any of Denerim's many ambient calls. Aside from Corithal's breathing and the heavy footfall of their slaver guard, there was only the rustle of trees in the wind. As night drew overhead, most of the bird calls had faded, and in their wake insects began their chirping. If Naien had been anything like her Dalish ancestors, she probably could have called them by name, but she'd never once stepped foot out of the Alienage, let alone Denerim, until now. She didn't even know the name of the trees that surrounded the small farm, or the crops left untended and overgrown in the field.
The slavers had removed anything that could have been used to inflict damage should she choose to fight, including taking away her shoes. Beneath her bare feet, blood stained the wooden floorboards. The planks were clearly discolored- the specks and smears were no longer a vibrant red, but nearly black- swirling into the aged whorls. The flaking splinters appeared to have been an effort to scrub the sinister blemish away.
Keraer was cruel, and after the revelation of his betrayal, had never once offered an expression. He was callous and cold- crushing any hope or fight before it finished pumping through Naien's heart. He delighted in stripping pride, baring it to strangers who chose to mock it, using it to tear his victims further apart. She would not have been surprised if he'd murdered the farmers that lived here and dumped their bodies somewhere in the surrounding woods.
She was tucked into one of the small bedrooms, locked away with Corithal. She knew that the blonde slaver- Simon- was standing alert on the other side of the door. He was quiet- focused and meticulous, his blue eyes constantly narrowed and flickering over any surface, his ears alert for any noise from his charges. She didn't know much about him, but knew enough that she was confident he was not to be trifled with, none of them were.
After a few hours of being herded, yelled at, mocked, beaten, and pushed, Corithal had considered for the tiniest amount of time simply giving up whatever good will and cheer was left in his tenuous grip. It was somewhat dreamlike, really - one minute he'd been quietly asking after the whereabouts of his suddenly-gone neighbors, and the next he'd been gripped and bound by limbs as tight as steel and shoved into a sewer with the waiflike girl that was, he considered, currently his only humane companion. The others - well, Corithal sniffed at the thought of them, his eyes boring into the door that he knew hid them from his view. They weren't...human. Well -- they were human and that was somewhat the point of the whole debauchle --but they had to have lost their souls to demons in order to treat others as they did. So, they were slaver-demons in human skin. It was easier for him to think this way; to depersonalize himself and them from the whole situation, and even to find humor. Humor was a vastly underrated weapon in his view - it belied their attempts at breaking his spirit, and he knew it was his best chance for keeping his head, wits, and pride intact throughout the ordeal.
Naien was ever so small and scared. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye - they'd finally come to rest in this little yellow farmhouse that was Maker-knew-where in the middle of the night, and he would have sworn that the poor sweet thing was trembling like a leaf. Whenever Keraer so much as flinch a muscle, she'd seemed to wince, expecting a blow. At least for now, they'd been left to their own devices, and Cori swore to himself then and there that he simply would not let another moment pass without trying to make the girl smile. He nudged her bare foot with his own, his eyes gazing with an overt shifty glance towards the door before he looked back to her. She was tiny, with nearly white-blonde hair and pale, nearly sallow skin. She just didn't look healthy, but he hadn't really seen her smile, either.
"Hey...psst...hey hey." He waited until the girl looked up, and then looked back towards the door, trying to say something, anything patently ridiculous just to get her out of her douldrums. "So...which one do you think is cuter?"
Naien started when the toe grazed her foot, but didn't entirely pull away. It was an odd gesture, and certainly a bizarre way to fetch attention. "Yes?" She wasn't rude, she never had been, and now seemed an awful time to lash out at someone in a similarly dreadful position. Her eyes widened, but she shook her head, hoping to clear out the daze. His question was utterly ridiculous, and there was certainly no way that she could have heard him correctly. "What? Do you mean your feet? Because... you can't-- you don't mean them, do you?"
Cori wasn't exactly sure of the girl's age - she spoke politely, almost maturely, but she looked like she wasroughly twelve or so, about twice the age of his neighbor's daughter, little Kinai. The question had startled her. Well - at least she had an owlish look now, and it was really rather fetching. He tried giving a lascivious grin; with his balding head and twinkling eyes, he hoped he didn't look like a letch - the girl certainly had nothing to fear from him as his tastes ran otherwise. "Well of course them, girlie. If they're going to make objects of us, I say we do it to them first." He shook a finger at her knowingly, like a grandmother trying to read a child's thoughts. "I bet it's the blonde one, hmm? At least he's not a stoic, stuffy Templar type like that other one, and he's got a nice rear porch."
Naien was certain that her jaw had dropped loose from her face, her disbelief puffing out in some high pitched teenaged squeal. If she'd had access to her hands (and under more relaxed circumstance), she would have reached out to playfully strike the devilish Cori at her side. 'Make objects of them'! Didn't he realize how very bad the situation was? "I can't believe you are looking at the 'rear porches' of these people!" She was so shocked that a small noise broke loose, something akin to a chuckle. "Please tell me that you're joking!"
Corithal grinned devillishly, his dark eyes dancing in the room. She looked so much nicer when she smiled, and she seemed to have a little spitfire personality underneath all of her morosity. He leaned closer, pitching his voice low with a slightly more urgent, honest tone. "Of course I looked. I'm still alive, and so are you. They're going to try to make us feel like things, you know. Less than dirt. And I tell you, I'd rather be dead than to lose myself to their likes. I've got more spirit in my little finger than they've knocked out of me yet, and until and unless they do, my eyes are planted firmly on their backsides. You understanding me? Don't let them beat you." Without meaning to, he raised his voice harshly and Corithal's head whipped towards the door, sparkle gone, tension in his shoulders. It was possible they may have heard, and he needed to be as ready as he could be.