Silvermoon Slaver Camp

It's night in the Silvermoon camp, but that means little to Raena but that the torches burn especially bright against her aching eyes. She takes stock of her surroundings for the hundredth time. She finds herself within a wide prison cell completely devoid of amenities, three grey windowless stone walls surrounding her, a heavy iron barred gate locked before her. She hangs by reddened and strained wrists, the tips of her toes just brushing the floor, never allowed a moment's rest. A guard clad in heavy plated armour inscribed with a moon insignia and wielding a large glaive clanks past her cell every once in a while, paying her no mind. For months, these slaver bastards have tried to break her. Every time, she's resisted. But she grows...tired. Her head drops once more, her white hair cascading about her face, sweat dripping from the tip of her nose. She looks down at her barely-clothed body, her decency preserved by naught but a few scraps of linen. She's gained some new scars since the slavers started their efforts. her toned abdomen is stained with her own blood, dried and caked on at this point. Her legs are covered with whip marks. The slavers have done their best to keep her wounds easily hidden and as such haven't broken anything, but this is little comfort; Raena knows what this means they have planned for her.

The woman refuses to become a plaything for any rich man, though, however pampered that might make her. Cages don't suit the woman, gilded or otherwise. And so her resolve is renewed, and she inhales with a sharp intake of breath, holding it for a moment before breathing out. She has no escape plan. Surely, however, this can't continue forever. The slavers are vigilant, but they are human. They will slip up. And when they do, Raena will tear them limb from limb.
"This I can promise," she murmurs to herself.
The guard outside her cell hears her muttering to herself and slams the wooden haft of his glaive upon the bars. "Quiet, worm!" he snarls in a gravelly, unrefined tone. Raena acquiesces, and says nothing. He will be the first to perish, she thinks to herself, before consciousness slips from her exhausted mind and she falls into a restless slumber.

A grizzled commander approached Roxanne as she enters the camp, his scarred lips turned up in a lecherous grin as his gaze slithers over her figure. He’s dressed in a set of gleaming plate armour embeveled with silver and gold latticework designs portraying a crescent moon insignia. It’s pristine and well taken care of, the armour of a noble or a king. His face is handsome, middle aged with a dusting of black hair peppered with white and grey. His eyes are a striking emerald.
“Why hello there, luv,” he intones, his voice quiet and composed yet possessing a dangerous edge.

“Come looking for mercenary work I see,” he continues, gesturing to the ad clutched within her hands, “or perhaps to volunteer yourself in...some other way? We could always use more hands around here.”
His grin widens to reveal a pair of sharp silver canines, longer and sharper, it seems, than a natural tooth should be. Behind him, in the mustering grounds, the slaves have stopped their whispers and gotten back to work, only glancing in Roxanne’s direction occasionally. Most know not to falter when the commander comes around, lest they end up vanishing for good.

The commander chuckles at the woman's insistence.
"Right down to business, I see," he sighs, crossing his gauntleted arms and shaking his head. "What a shame. Well, my name is Commander Jaran. You stand in the base of operations of the Silvermoon Organisation. We take the...disreputables, the unwanted of society and put them to better use. Labour, fighting, you know. That sort of thing. We figure a hand that's cleaning a noble's study is a hand that isn't taking up arms against greater society. We make money, they get help, everybody wins."
His tone is soft and convincing, friendly even.
"Now. Come with me. We should discuss the specifics of our arrangement somewhere less conspicuous," he continues, and his tone makes it seem as if there's not much choice in the matter. As if materializing out of the night, two armed guards appear beside Roxanne, their pointed glaives shining menacingly in the torchlight, their silver armour gleaming enchantingly. In other circumstances one might think they were some sort of noble men at arms or even knights.

The commander turns, and begins to walk off toward a building at the other end of the mustering ground, inspecting the work of the toiling slaves as he passes. It seems as if they're clearing and flattening the dusty land, possibly in order to build a paved road. A gallows stands off to one side, previously concealed behind a barracks, three poor souls hanging from the ropes, their eyes long picked out by carrion birds. Around the center corpse's neck hangs a sign that reads, in bold calligraphy, "DESERTERS WILL BE PUNISHED".
"We run a tight ship here," explains Jaran, "and I don't take kindly to insubordination."

"Those," replies the Commander, stopping for a moment before the great steel door that marks the entrance to his quarters and looking back over his shoulder at the hanged men with a grim expression, "were once my finest officers. They decided to disobey my orders and allow one of our quarry to escape, simply because she had a pretty face and a soft intonation. The day they got it in their minds to elope with some peasant girl is the day they crossed me. Well, technically it was just the one, but the others were his cohorts. They stand as an example to what happens when you cross me...or what happens when you stand with those who do. You are not so foolish, I trust, girl?"
Despite the inflection, it sounds more like a veiled threat than a question.

"Merchandise? How...barbaric," replies the commander, holding the door to the warden's office open for Roxanne as the silver-clad guards usher her in. It's a squat stone building next to the grand citadel of the prison proper, but inside it's opulently decorated, forest green curtains laced with silver trim hanging upon each window, each wall decorated with what appear to be original art pieces, a grandiose mahogany desk sat in the centre of the room. Two bookshelves adorn one wall, filled with various tomes and novels. A disturbingly great many of them seem to explore the subject of torture techniques and how to most efficiently dispatch your enemies, along with several famed military doctrine manuals. The rest are leisure reading; a few even appear to be sappy romance novels. A sturdy oak door across from the book shelves marks the man's bedroom.

"We prefer to call them...mmm...contractors. They work for us, they get treated well, fed, clothed, bathed. What more could one ask? Certainly we make the monetary profit, but do we not deserve this, after all we do to keep our people alive?" he asks as he sits upon a cushioned chair facing his desk, pushing aside a stack of building plans from the centre of his desk and tugging a set of bounty posters from a cabinet filled with files. He spreads them out on the desk before him. They give no description of the crimes of those pictured, and a few of them look to be no older than sixteen seasons.
"These insolent fools decided they would forgo my generous hospitality for a taste of...what they call freedom. The whole lot of them snuck out in the dead of night, leaving their comrades behind -- some allies they were. By now they are likely dead, eaten by the beasts that roam this forest or picked off by ruffians and bandits, but I want you to find whatever remains of them, and bring them to me."
His soft tone has turned into a light growl, and his emerald eyes flash with anger.
"If they are dead, they will be displayed for all to see, to show those who might harbor similar thoughts that the Silvermoon Organisation is the safest place they could possibly be. If they are not...well, then they will scream for their insubordination for seven long nights, before they are silenced. Permanently," he purrs, sliding the painted posters closer to Roxanne.

"They are hardly worth this price, but I wish to make an example. I offer half a million crowns for the lot of them. You get a quarter of the reward upon acceptance, the rest will come when they are brought before me," he continues, leaning back in his chair and crossing his fingers, his enigmatic grin returning. The silver-clad guards stand behind the woman,
"I would recommend you don't take the quarter offered and leave, however. That would make the Silvermoon Organisation very...unhappy."

--

Meanwhile, outside the warden's quarters, a makeshift market is being set up, a large wooden podium upon which several dozen slaves are positioned, chained to the ground below them with heavy steel links, arms crossed behind each. A merchant's caravan trots into the camp, a troupe of well-dressed men lining up before the podium and speaking with one another with a low buzz. The slaves working in the mustering ground have all been ushered away; it's unbecoming for such worthless filth to be seen by the Cartel's customers. One by one slaves are tugged up onto their feet by a burly man who looks more like an executioner than a salesman. His voice tells a different story, however, a charismatic baritone that flows quickly and clearly.

The merchants use painted fans raised into the air to place their bids, and one by one the slaves are pushed off the market podium. One in particular stands out among the crowd. It's a woman, but her curves are not supple and fattened or waifish and girlish like those who came before. Instead, her figure is powerful and taut. Her hips are wide and her breasts full, but her abdomen is toned and scarred by years of fighting, her legs and arms visibly powerful, the musculature bulging slightly without being grotesquely large. She's a prime physical specimen in every sense of the word. Her white hair cascades over her face as it drops, her eyes shut tight as she kneels, fighting the base urge to give in to impossible odds. She won't give these merchants a show -- despite being nearly nude and humiliated -- and she won't give in to the slavers' jeers. As the slaves get sold off one by one she awaits her turn. She will make them regret ever touching her.

The commander raises a brow at her departure, motioning for the guards to follow her and ensure she doesn't cause any problems. Before they can move, however, she comes bursting back in, spilling her counter offer in hurried words. He raises both brows at the comparatively generous terms and sits back in his chair, crossing his fingertips. What, he wonders, does this problem inmate mean to this woman that she'd forgo half a million crowns? The woman was a dismal and disobedient slave -- part of the reason he's not selling her as a fighter, as giving her weapons near any master would be a bad idea. Jaran's eyes trace their way over Roxanne's features, viewing her in a new light. She does look quite a bit like the other woman. The hair, the eyes, the features. Not sisters, but...close. He purposefully keeps her waiting for a response, gauging her reactions as he does so. She's shaking like a leaf. Clearly this slave means a lot to her.

Finally, his coldly calculating expression breaks and the edges of his lips twitch up into a grin, his features softening ever so slightly.
"A generous offer indeed, Miss Fletcher. I am almost tempted to accept on your terms, but..." he pauses and sighs, "well, I am a man of principle, and it is clear your negotiation skills put you at a disadvantage. I will offer you something better. You can take the woman and have her help hunting the escapees. She is an excellent fighter -- though something tells me you know that already -- and she gave our men much trouble before being caught in her trespassing. In addition, you will be accompanied by a pair of my best men, who will offer you their full-fledged support."
The men, of course, are not truly offered as support, but as security. He slides the stack of bounty posters over the table to Roxanne, inviting her to take them.
"Happy hunting, Miss Fletcher. I eagerly await your successful return," he states in his dulcet tones, smiling dangerously.

Raena's eyes widen at the sound of Roxanne's voice, and her head shoots up, hair whipping back. She can hardly believe her own sight. What was Roxanne doing in such a shithole? Further, what was she doing buying slaves? These thoughts shoot through Raena's mind at the speed of light. They don't last long, however, as Raena overcomes her shock and stands up, pulling the chains up from where they disappear into the podium and whipping them about to catch the slave auctioneer's leg, tripping him up. She slams a foot down upon the man's chest, pinning him, and glowers down at him. The nearby guards move to intercept, but a subtle gesture from one of the faceless honour guards tells them to stand down.
"Try and auction me off to some rich bastard again," hisses Raena in her deep, feminine tones, "and you will die choking on your own blood."

She squats down to take the keys from the auctioneer's belt, unlocking herself and rolling her shoulders forward. She rubs at her wrists. They've become far too accustomed to those iron shackles, reddened and bruised where she hung. She'll make sure she never has to wear them again. She gives a curt nod of thanks and a small, secret smile to Roxanne before levelling her icy eyes on one of the honour guard.
"My gear, please," she rumbles. Just then, a squire approaches, leading a mule that lugs a heavy cart behind him. There lie Raena's reforged forest green and golden plate armour, just as proudly beaten and scarred as the last time Roxanne saw it. Perhaps moreso, even. Raena moves to acquire her gear, and begins to step into the armour, piece by piece.

It takes a considerable span of time to fit herself back into her clothing and armour, but by the time it's done, one could barely tell Raena had been so thoroughly abused. She wears the same grim resting expression as always, and although she looks a tad slimmer than before, she's still got a powerful angular facial structure. She pulls her flamberge from the cart and pulls it from its sheathe, prompting the guards to lean forward a tad, both hands moving to their heavy glaives, but she doesn't make any move to attack, instead swinging the gleaming blade through the air once, testing the enchanted blade's weight. Nodding in satisfaction, she sheathes it again and slings it over her back, followed by the shield, and then the gladius, which she attaches to her belt. Last but not least, she swings the tattered and faded red-orange cloak over her shoulders, the fabric falling heavily, indicating her throwing knives are still hidden within its folds.

It is not until she's full re-equipped that she approaches Roxanne and wraps her arms around the other Fletcher, embracing her tightly yet only for a short moment before pulling back.
"It is good to see you again, Roxy," she intones with a faint smile.
"We must catch up. I wish to know everything about the past few years that you and I have been separated. But first, uh.." Raena looks about with a sour expression, "I would like to leave this dreadful place. The voice of The Void is quiet here, and there is much unnecessary suffering without the release of death."

Raena raises a slightly disapproving brow at her cousin as she swipes the papers from her hand.
"Working for slavers now, are we?" she rumbles, her tone one of almost motherly disappointment.
"Roxanne. You know better than to trust these sorts. Why are you taking a contract on these people simply to save me? I am hardly worth all this. Are you certain there was no other way?"
She sighs and slides the papers into a slot in her cloak before nodding and stepping off toward the entrance. Despite her having been a slave just moments prior, none of the guards move to stop her, partially due to her retinue of honour guard that follow her every move.

If Roxanne decides to follow the group, she'll find Raena and the others positioned next to a nearby supply cart. Raena speaks in low tones with the honour guards as she leans upon the cart, gnawing away at an apple. They appear to be talking about the plan to capture the escapees.
"I do not like the idea," replies Raena to the query of one of the helmeted guards, who himself leans upon the haft of his glaive, "but I suppose I haven't much choice, do I?"
The guard shakes his head, and Raena nods. Of course she doesn't. Still, hunting down slaves feels...wrong, even to her. Death is preferable to being kept as a pet, in her mind. Death means being reunited with The Void and falling into eternal slumber. Slavery is constant humiliation, constant distance combat, constant severance from The Void. Hell, if ever there were such a thing. And yet she's de facto agreed to bring more beings back into slavery. She's almost disgusted with herself, and with her cousin.

Raena nods to each of the guards as Roxanne approaches, ending their conversation, and the guards saddle up on destriers that stand tied up nearby. Raena gives a shallow smile to her cousin, until the smaller woman begins to speak. With each word, Raena's expression becomes more grim, and for the first time in perhaps their entire combined lives, a look of uncertainty comes across the woman's face.
"That is...a novel approach, cousin. It would allow us to escape immediately and without the need to hunt down these escaped children. The slavers might find them anyway, but in the meantime if we truly wished to we could devote our time to finding them first and assisting in their disappearance. However, it would be...humiliating, I'm certain. Hrmmm," Raena intones, as much to herself as to her cousin. If Raena were in Roxanne's shoes, would she do it?

After much deliberation, the answer is "probably". There were lives on the line -- lives that belong to The Void, not some aged knight who can't bring himself to abandon his armour. But Raena has no reason to covet her material form, and she is not as individualistic as her cousin. It would likely affect the Void-worshipper much less intensely than it would her kin. Finally, after several moments of breaking eye contact and gazing off into the distance as she runs a fingertip over her facial scar, she turns back to Roxanne.
"This is your choice. I will not tell you that you should. Tactically it is the superior option. Logically it is the superior option. But there is...more here, for you especially, than logic. I would do it with little trepidation, but I do not expect you to possess that sort of will. I will support whatever decision you make, my cousin," replies Raena, her tone softer, gentler than usual.

Raena returns the squeeze of her cousin's hand and walks with her to the Warden's quarters. None of the guards know what the two are up to, so dozens of pairs of inquisitive eyes follow them all the way to the door. When they arrive at the Warden's quarters, the posted guards allow the comparatively smaller and much more cooperative Roxanne through, barring Raena's entry with crossed halberds. She shoots them a withering look, but she acquiesces and stands back, leaning against the stone wall of the small building. This, it seems, Roxanne will have to carry out alone. Raena feels better about her cousin -- clearly the woman could withstand such a payment, and it's considerably less disgusting in Raena's mind than selfishly consigning a gaggle of kids one hardly knows to a life of pointless suffering. This option, however, makes the Void cultist no more comfortable with her own role. She should be helping in some way. She huffs and crosses her arms, growling at herself. She hates inaction.