Chapter 8
Sisters in arms and chains
It was a unique kind of shame to find oneself enslaved by a fickle Druchii and then being thrown out of his cabin in paradisical nudity for not being compliant enough. Furthermore, the way he had phrased it, Yalene was now effectively grounded for the time being. If she hadn't been so occupied with feeling relieved, ashamed and exhausted, she would have found the situation morbidly hilarious.
When she walked down to the hold, she could see that it was a small area currently dominated by hammocks in which a few women were already or still sleeping. Only one lantern was still lit, the older of the Bretonnian sisters sitting near and sewing. She was accompanied by a pretty, petite young woman with a dainty frame, darker skin and lustrous black hair. Both of them looked startled when they spotted her, blinking for several moments as Yalene addressed them in the most polite manner possible to gloss over the ridiculous fact that she had just barged into their cabin unannounced and bare-naked.
"I'm supposed to send Hjördis up."
The two women exchanged glances, and it was the petite woman who nodded silently, then hurried towards one of those hammocks to whisper a few words, while the Bretonnian woman rose, handing Yalene a blanket so that she could cover herself, thank goodness.
"I'm Mireille. Let's … just keep our voices down." She was clearly a little flustered, which all things considered, was a good sign. That meant that this sort of thing was out of the ordinary. "Who are you? What happened?"
"I'm Yalene and a misunderstanding happened.", she tried to smile, but that endeavour was doomed to fail. In the background, she could see that another young woman was woken up, rose and changed from the undyed nightshirt that they all wore to a loose robe, ready to be thrown off in a moment's notice. That was supposedly that poor Hjördis woman. The name itself indicated Norscan descent, and her appearance as a golden-haired, athletic beauty only cemented that impression. She also noted that this particular woman wore chains around her feet that made moving quickly difficult, while the other women did not. Yalene didn't have much time to observe the Norscan any longer, since she hurried upstairs on bare feet, leaving her with Mireille, who seemed industrious and practical enough to prepare a small bowl of water and a cloth.
"Alright, let's wash you up first, then get you some rest. We will discuss everything else later." The Bretonnian said in a tone that could be interpreted as motherly and friendly, although Yalene could sense an underlying sense of concern, even anxiety. Still, she was thankful for the opportunity to scrub the traces of that druchii captain off her body, while the other two women still awake helpfully prepared a hammock. If it were only possible to wash off anything druchii about her with a cloth and a little water, she thought bitterly. There was a slight, burning sensation on her neck where the captain had bitten her, and when Yalene tentatively touched it, she found a slight smear of blood on her fingers. If he had injured her seriously, she would be bleeding more profusely, but it was a minor annoyance to have the skin broken at such a sensitive spot. Mireille had noticed this little bite as well, and was quick to quickly patch it up without commenting on it, for which Yalene was thankful.
She found herself tucked into bed shortly thereafter, clad in a nightshirt and wrapped in what seemed to her like a reasonable, clean blanket as the lights were doused and the small group of women went to sleep. That didn't mean silence, though, since the wooden walls of any ship allowed for a lot of sound to travel freely. Yalene could hear the muffled sounds of pain and crying from prisoners, as well as loud and lustful moaning from above, in the captain's cabin.
Now was the time to feel desperate and ashamed of herself, and those feelings had been suppressed long enough. It was almost comical, only that she wasn't able to laugh about it this time: This vessel was filled with people who only stopped inflicting pain when they had to sleep, and the only reason she was not treated like those other slaves, caged like cattle, or slain was intrinsically tied to this new form she was wearing. Appearance was something that people were born with and born to; beauty was highly subjective, fleeting and often deceptive in regards to nature. She had never been beautiful before and had never wanted to be. And yet, it wasn't wit or grace or any strength of her own, but rather that change in appearance of all things, an accident out of her control that had saved her, but also condemned her … and this was embarrassing. She had done nothing to deserve life in this situation other than breathing.
But what to do with this situation and this form, this skin she was now bound to? She could never be one of those cruel creatures that the Druchii were, so she assumed that she was human with pointy ears and a longer lifespan. Even if she framed it that way in her mind, the events of today were harrowing, and her survival could only been attributed to the one thing that she had never cared about and was not about to start now. Druchii were the best examples of this: they were beautiful creatures in their own right, but they had just wrecked hundreds of lives, and that true core made them appalling.
'I look just like them. Shallya help me, I'm a Dark Elf.'
At that thought, she had to shake her head emphatically to guide herself to reason again. 'Never mind that.', she thought. 'You are nothing like them. Deeds and mindset are more important than appearance.'. That was the comforting truth that Yalene needed for herself. It was true that she looked differently and that she was enslaved by an overly enthusiastic and sadistic manchild. Said manchild seemed to take some strange satisfaction out of owning something exotic and unique, like the strange creature she had become. Provided Ruvol Blackwater possessed a greater attention span than a goldfish, Yalene would be as safe as any domestic slave on a Druchii vessel could be. Even if he was currently dissatisfied with her. Note to self: If she wanted to avoid rocking the boat, it seemed that merely offering no resistance wouldn't suffice. The captain had been downright insulted by her simply not participating and showing indifference. Well, if she wanted to survive, she would have to learn to pretend, and even thinking this filled her with disgust.
But what other chance was there?
No matter how overly dramatic the captain had proven himself to be, his words were no less true: There was no place among humans for her any more. Even if she managed by some miracle to reach her original destination, Altdorf, it was far more likely that she would be put to death either through the mark on the back of her hand or by revelation of her nature. But would that matter? At the end of the day, in the eyes of humans, she was part of a cruel race in the worst case. In the best case, she was merely a lost elf.
That sentiment rang true. Yalene was lost in so many ways, and the world seemed to make so little sense now. 'Survival has priority.', she thought. There was currently no room for elaborate plans, but there was room for resolve.
She would find a way to escape by mentally going into stealth. She would keep her head down, do her duty, be pleasant and smile and nod while she would patiently wait for a chance to leave this ship, and she would do so without debasing herself by spilling blood or harming anybody. It was possible that it would be a long, long time before opportunity arose. It could take months, perhaps even years. It didn't matter; it only mattered that she would escape eventually. She would not be tempted by an early chance or risk her life needlessly, nor would she offer anything more to her captors than a behaviour that implied that she was resigned to her fate. She wasn't. It would be a heroic plan to plan for some sort of mutiny and free each and every slave, but no matter how tempting it sounded, that was not a realistic plan. If opportunity arose, she would take it, but deep down, Yalene knew that this would not work. If this was a lone ship, it was feasible, but this was a small flotilla consisting of four ships; if one of them had a mutiny on their hands, the others would intervene quickly. No, if she ever wanted to succeed, she had to do so quietly and wait for an opportunity. Efficiency was rarely heroic, but she would rather be the former than the latter.
Now that she thought about it, the thought of her, Yalene Hoffmann, having been demoted to pleasure slave was just so absurd. In fact, in light of recent events, she found this to be more funny than traumatic. Still, that lout Ruvol didn't seem like the type to leave her alone from now on. It could be worse, she surmised, as this man styled himself a seducer and at least initially seemed to care about his bedfellow's pleasure. Since she could still feel said pleasure echoing in her body, he also knew what he was doing. Besides, Yalene highly doubted that she had to spend much time with him. Judging from her own few trips on sea and the stories of her brother, life at sea was mostly boring for everybody but the captain. If Druchii hierarchy and structure was anything close to Imperial ships, the captain would spend most of his day either on deck or with his officers, leaving only a portion of the evening. Even then, she had counted no less than seven hammocks in this hold, hers not included. This hold was quite cramped, even for the standards of the sea. With a collection of women like that, he would not have that much time to spare, and she didn't have to endure his antics that much. Besides, with impatient men like him, the shine of something new wore off quickly and they got bored if they received the impression that they couldn't conquer anything more. It made her wonder how many women had passed through this hold already.
The sounds from above had died down, but the muffled ones of the caged slaves did not. Trying to drown out those thoughts, she pulled her blanket over her head. It helped only a little, but in her private little darkness, as sleep was reluctant to claim her, Yalene wondered if the new subtlety of her witchsight was only temporary. Was magic an art and talent of the soul or the body, or perhaps both? It seemed that wizards tended to sire wizards themselves, and that bloodline was a factor, while elves in general were known to be creatures with an affinity to magic. Perhaps her talent was too little for this body, or this body was unresponsive towards magic.
She had only cast one spell since she had died, but even not knowing the peculiarities of this body, it took little effort as she reached for the small glimpse of inspiration at the edge of her perception, weaving it into a whispered intonation that she had been taught tightly into her cupped hands. It seemed like little fireflies were gathering at her palm, glowing in a soft, warm and purely white light, so faint and fleeting that it barely lasted for two seconds and was just enough to light her palms, just as she had intended. Magic carried on and to Yalene's relief, no disaster happened. In fact, creating this little light had been a strangely comforting experience, as if something of hers had survived and could even thrive in time. This was her secret, hers alone, and not even the Druchii could take that from her.
She could live with that.
The night ended fast, with the face of the Bretonnian youth hovering over hers, smiling kindly. "Rise and shine! We'll have breakfast in a minute." The youth was gone before Yalene could answer, propping herself up slowly.
In her human body, she had been almost nocturnal; but how this elf worked, especially after her long stint in prison, she simply didn't know. Without the light of day, there was no way to tell how early or late it was. However, Mireille and her sister were already awake and dressed, while the petite woman from earlier that night was still in her nightshirt. The same was true for a statuesque Druchii, lounging on the floor with the regal air and entitlement of a queen and regarding her with the curiosity one would reserve for a brightly- coloured insect – slightly entertaining, but ultimately fated to be crushed under a heel. When Yalene, still a little tired, sat herself down with the other women, it was that Druchii who wordlessly handed a steaming cup filled with a dark, foul-smelling liquid to her.
"Drink that. It's Meherlasroot tea." If that elf would insist on huffing a little louder, she would keel over from the size of the chip on her shoulder. Still, there was probably a reason why she was given that cup, and the unvoiced question must have shown on her face, since Mireille added. "We wouldn't want to have pregnancies on this ship."
That made sense. Visibly reassured, Yalene began to sniff carefully at the liquid. That was indeed foul, but taking even a small sip made her realize that the taste didn't do the smell justice. She could feel herself recoil at the foul, sickeningly bitter and biting taste. That made the other Druchii chuckle, albeit in a way that merely underlined that she was a little puzzled.
"Let it cool off and then down it at once. You must be barely out of your diapers if you don't know that." In another woman's voice, there would have been concern, but this Druchii seemed to low-key mock her. "When was the last time you bled?"
Harrijassesne! By Ulric's right buttcheek, that was embarrassing. Young people had women's issues and moon cycles to content with. But she had gone into early menopause a decade ago and literally had no idea how fertile elf women were, what their periods looked like and if it was anything alike for them as for a human. Her helpless silence lasted a little too long for comfort and enough to provide an actual answer, as she could see that the expression on the other Druchii's face turned to disgust as she threw her arms up.
"Wonderful. Now he takes little children into his bed." Her indignation seemed sincere; even Evil seemed to have standards, and molesting minors seemed to be a taboo even for Druchii, or at the very least this one. She then turned to Mireille, her voice dripping with acid as she clearly taunted her. "Who's next? Our darling Agnés?"
"I'll be fifteen in five months." The youth piped up with her thick, Bretonnian accent. "I've had my cycles for a month now. I'm old enough!" She was quickly shushed by her sister and the Druchii, both of them hissing in unison that no, she was not.
While Yalene watched the verbal exchange, she allowed the implications to sink in. First, it was a good thing that apparently, Druchii or at least this Druchii woman and the captain seemed to have some moral standard when it came to children, or in this case, a youth. That was good. In all that misery and suffering Dark Elves wrought, it was a relief. Then she returned to the thought that of course, since she was younger now, she was also able to conceive again. There was no way that she would want to now, and especially not when the captain was involved. Yuck, the thought alone was nauseating. But someday, when she would leave all of this behind, the possibility to have children was strange, to say the least. All her life, she had resigned herself never to have any offspring and had more than made up for it by loving her nieces, nephews and Finja to bits, spoiling them like only an aunt could. Rhya's grace, she had been so excited for the next planned trip to Dietershafen to visit her nephew's family and the newborn grandniece in two weeks. She still yearned to see that new member of the family, and right now, there was nothing she would not do to be able to travel there.
One had to consider that trip as cancelled.
It was the Druchii's voice that pulled her out of her thoughts. "How old are you anyway?"
Since Yalene knew next to nothing about elven anatomy, she thought that she just might stay true to that fact. "I don't know. I have trouble remembering." To her utter surprise, the women in the room frowned, but seemed to take this hastily concocted lie seriously.
"How did that happen?", the Druchii asked, still a little unconvinced.
"Damned if I know. I don't remember."
That dry retort was enough to stop that line of questioning, so the Dark Elf woman merely frowned again, then shrugged. "He's insane, but we already knew that. Why would he pick up a waif like you? Oh, don't answer that." She huffed, clearly not willing to be interrupted. "If he wanted a clueless thing, why didn't he take an Asur slave? He has been planning to catch one for ages now. At least they mean prestige. You don't."
'So you don't mean prestige either? That is a sad thought.', Yalene thought, but in the revered Esprit d'escalier, she decided not to voice this particular thought and instead to opt for a more diplomatic and polite approach. "An Asur slave would be too steeped in her own arrogance to ask a clearly more experienced woman for advice. I have no such qualms." She had worded her response as carefully as possible; while this Druchii woman seemed ridiculously confrontational, they would probably have to spend a lot of time together, and there was nothing gained by alienating her.
At first, Cevirin merely reacted with a vaguely disgusted-sounding noise, but then the young Bretonnian girl piped up. "That means that she is your little sister now?"
The charm and cleverness of the teenage girl was not to be underestimated, since the Druchii scoffed again, but then obviously warmed up to the idea and grudgingly gave some advice.
"We are fruitful two times a year for a full month each. Afterwards, you get to bleed for two weeks. Since you don't know when your fertile cycle starts, we have to be careful that you drink that tea every week to prevent an accident, until we figure out your cycles. Let's just hope that you have cycles already. You look young, maybe you truly haven't had bled yet. How troublesome." Then, she started smirking. "Perhaps we don't even need to check if we have enough Meherlasroot until we return home. But given your last night's performance, we might not need it at all ..."
Before the Druchii could spew more poisonous and disgusting nonsense, Mireille interrupted. "Captain Blackwater wants her to stay and his word is law. As for the root … I'll see what I can do." The Dark Elf looked taken aback and as if she wanted to start a discussion, but the Bretonnian cut her off, not even pretending that she was pleased with this kind of exchange, turning towards Yalene. "Now you have met Cevirin. As she has mentioned, this is Agnés ..." She tapped the youth on the shoulder, who smiled politely. Then, Mireille pointed at the ceiling. "Hjördis, the woman you saw yesterday, is still asleep in the captain's cabin. Katharina is currently on deck." The next tap on the shoulder went to the petite woman with those beautifully dark eyes. "This is Rahat." The name sounded decidedly Arabyan. Said woman smiled shyly before she cast her eyes down. Then, Mireille pointed to the person still lying in her hammock, her back turned to the small group, hair a dark brown mess. "At as far as I understood, her name is Lavinia. She was picked up two weeks ago from a cargo vessel. She speaks only Tilean, and nobody around here knows her language, so we aren't quite sure what to do with her."
Poor girl. What a frightening situation, having been caught by cruel slavers and then finding herself without any means to communicate, any chance to connect with anybody. Originally, Yalene had determined that it was best to hide how many languages she understood, but now, she found herself to look forward to breaking that illusion. Tilean, like Classical, was almost an obligatory language to learn when studying linguistics, literature, art and poetry, due to the rich Tilean culture. Her Tilean hadn't been used for a long while and was admittedly rusty, but she was positive to be able to at least carry a basic conversation in that language.
"More about Lavinia later … just don't take it personally when she starts shouting at you. She is troubled at times." Mireille stated in an apologetic tone, brow furrowed in mild concern as she stole a look to the Tilean's hammock.
"If she keeps this up, she'll end up thrown to the rest of the crew along with Hjördis. She won't last long. Troublemakers, both of them." Cevirin pointed out warily.
"Enough of this." Mireille countered, more gently than it was merited, as she addressed Yalene again. "We let Lavinia and whoever master took to bed that night sleep as long as they like. Two of us rise an hour before the captain does and help him with his morning routine. One of us is always with him … today, it's Katharina." Yalene remembered that there was a mess of ginger locks in the hammock next to her. The name was popular in the Empire and Kislev as well, but the way that Mireille had pronounced it, the ginger girl seemed to be Imperial. A countrywoman … that meant that she had to be careful, lest she slipped and accidentally revealed her secret. Mireille kept instructing her about the rules of this little conglomeration of slaves, who all seemed to fulfill the role of steward on this vessel. "When he's on deck, we meet for breakfast and plan the work schedule for the day." She smiled apologetically. "You can't exactly be part of that schedule right now, since you are not collared. I have told master about that little scratch on your neck ..." How politely she had phrased that, since it was basically a serious love bite. " … and he doesn't want to risk it being infected by wearing a collar. So you can't leave this hold aside from going to the bathroom, and you can't be seen by anybody right now." Oh great. While the reasoning was slyly put as a valid health concern, she was actually confined to the women's quarters, grounded like a misbehaving child.
Speaking of collars, Yalene noticed that the collars the women were wearing were all customized, to the point where the one that Mireille wore was more akin to a necklace lying tightly around the throat, and could even be taken as such. Agnés even wore what seemed like a finely crafted choker, but seemed comfortable to wear. It was strange, since she clearly remembered both of them wearing heavy collars made of metal when she had first seen them yesterday. It was possible that they just added those metal collars when they were on deck, or in plain sight. Shy Rahat wore a collar made of soft, black leather, so finely made that it wouldn't have surprised Yalene if such collars would at one point in time be current fashion in Reikland … now that she looked at the woman, she also noticed thin, long burn scars on her thighs. This poor girl had been through a lot, that much was plain.
The collar Cevirin wore looked more like a torque, made of metal, but fine, polished and even gilded – the decadence. Furthermore, she wore decorative cloth underneath, which had to be complementary to any dress she would wear when fully clothed and prevent any chafing. But no matter how comfortable to wear, how expensive or how pretty, these were still slave collars, all of them containing a ring for fastening a leash, and every single one of them containing a small marking that presumably identified their owner.
"You will stay here and help me with any sewing." Mireille concluded. "Very well then, I'll get breakfast."
"Drink your tea." Cevirin reminded Yalene in a saccharine tone. "And pray that breakfast will be able to make you forget that taste."
It turned out that it didn't. Yalene was surprised that this much fruit would be served with porridge, but then remembered that the Dark Elves had just sacked a mansion with presumably a full larder. There was enough fruit that thrived in the cold and rainy weather, some even in snow. She happened to know for a fact that on Imperial vessels, quickly perishable fruit was consumed first, since nothing should ever be wasted at sea. So fruit, vegetables and bread were the first to be eaten. What happened when the Druchii weren't eating stolen food? Yalene wouldn't put it past them that even their rations were dark, sadistic and plain evil enough to bite back and ramble in endless, mindless hate in addition to being complicated.
Sigmar's sizzling sausages. Now she couldn't stop eyeing her bowl of porridge.
Her stomach was in knots anyway, so after a few spoonfuls of mostly eating the fruit, she had to stop. To her relief, nobody pressured her to eat more, and the rest of her ration was offered to Agnés, her still being a growing girl. Afterwards, the other women discussed the chores for the day. Yalene noticed that it was indeed correct that Agnés was putting on the metal collar she had noticed the day before, and that it was no other than her sister, who not only held the key, but fastened it. What a twisted state of affair. She then left with the other two women, leaving Yalene with Mireille and the sleeping Tilean.
When they were mostly alone, Mireille turned to her, again looking awfully apologetic. "So sorry about Cevirin. She's rude to everybody, so don't take it personally."
"No worries." She replied dryly. "Truth to be told, I almost like her. She's funny." At Mireille's baffled expression, Yalene started to chuckle. "Somebody who is so unabashedly bitter … why, I can almost respect that. It is kind of amusing that she makes so much effort to be nasty, but her supposedly biting remarks turn out to be surprisingly tame. Let's take it for what it is." Besides, Yalene could not remember a single instance in which she had been shamed for lack of sexual prowess. Slutshaming was common, prude shaming as well, but shaming somebody for not pleasing a man enough … that sounded like the dumbest thing any badly written in-law in a cheap novel would ever conceive, and Yalene had never heard anybody stating something so comically insane. Besides, this woman looked perpetually standoffish and bitter; since they were all in a bad situation, who was she to judge a woman for venting a little, especially if it was so amusing? And as for anything Cevirin had said, Yalene found that the only thing she could feel about it was the pleasant awareness of how little she cared about that Druchii's comments and that she was just too exhausted to give a damn.
The Bretonnian seemed still baffled, but eventually nodded. "Very well. I need to take your measurements and see what I can find to get you dressed." She regarded Yalene with the look of a professional. "You are a bit taller than the humans around here, but not as tall as Cevirin. You also have vastly different body types … this won't be easy." She sighed, and Yalene could see what she meant. From what she had seen, the good captain had a preferred type of woman, since every human in this hold she had seen had a curvy figure. Rahat possessed a voluptuous beauty and smouldering, dark eyes, moving with grace. If she had more confidence and weren't so shy, she could have easily swayed a crowd with just a glance. Mireille and Agnés were very similar, pretty women with fine features and shapely figures. Even the Norscan, Hjördis, seemed to gravitate towards a fuller shape, despite her athletic figure. Cevirin however was different: as an elf, she was bound to have a lithe frame, as Yalene had as well, but if one compared the two women in their elven appearance, Cevirin was clearly embodying the traditional beauty standard, with long limbs, slender hips and slightly angular features. Yalene in comparison had considerably softer features and a more … human shape, for the lack of another word. For a human, she would be average. For an elf, she was curvaceous. For a seamstress, as Mireille turned out to be, this was a nightmare.
While Mireille took her measurements, she tentatively started a conversation. "You have never been in this situation, haven't you?" Yalene shook her head, as the other women continued just as carefully. "But you were caught on Imperial soil, weren't you? What were you doing there?"
"I don't remember." This was the easiest and at the same time least helpful, which made Mireille sigh.
"Very well. We will start from the beginning with you, then. If you want to stay alive, try not to anger our master again." Yalene had to suppress a disgusted noise, but nodded dutifully as the other woman continued in a matter-of-fact fashion. "Chores are light and you are well-cared for. It doesn't get better than this in the service of the Druchii. You'll stay here for now, but eventually, your chores will lead you on deck. You are Captain Blackwater's property, so nobody from the crew is allowed to touch you. If they do, come to me or tell the captain at once; it's important for him to know so that his men don't get out of line. Don't look anybody from the crew in the eyes unless you're having a conversation with them, keep your eyes down and don't be a bother." This last seemed to be important and also the subtext of that little introduction into being an obedient slave – the Bretonnian woman was for some reason in a position to organize their little group, and she had decided to take her duty seriously. A new, unruly slave would be more than just bothersome for her; if she was responsible, then an unruly slave mouthing off to Druchii could cost her dearly. Yalene also noted that Agnés and Mireille both used Eltharin in a way that was simple, yet functional, which was quite common for non-native speakers who had been taught a complicated language by practice and oral teaching. She had to force herself to focus on the fact that unruly slaves spelled trouble for Mireille personally, and as it looked, at least the Tilean seemed to already take that role.
"I do not intend to make any trouble." Yalene replied quietly, which made the other woman sigh in relief.
"Thank you." It sounded genuine. "Say, can you read and write?" When Yalene nodded, Mireille smiled faintly. "Good. Sometimes, I just need somebody who can read the elven language. It might be best if I could turn to one more person other than Cevirin."
That seemed fair. It would have been surprising if Mireille were able to read at all, since the peasants in Bretonnia were awfully suppressed and kept ignorant and undereducated. It was also well known that smaller communities were inbred to oblivion, so it was to be concluded that these two sisters had come from a larger city. But instead of speculating, it seemed more prudent to ask the woman herself.
"If I may ask … where do you come from?"
"Baux-de-Veune in Lyonesse." The way the woman answered was almost too casual, too factual and devoid of emotion. "Six years ago, it was raided by an alliance between the Captain Blackwater's flotilla and another ship, or so I understand."
"How did you survive?"
"Grovelling." Her smile was faint, tinged with sadness and loss. "Grovelling, grovelling and even more grovelling. When the Druchii threw their nets everywhere, I just had to do something. So I grabbed my baby sister by the hand and ran towards the first Dark Elf that looked as if he was in charge, threw myself on my knees and grovelled. I promised him my services and my body for as long as I lived if he would only let my sister go. The first mate was in a good mood and translated, Captain Blackwater kind of accepted and here we are. I didn't know at the time that Blackwater had just overthrown his father, the former captain of his vessel, and had decided that he would only keep Cevirin of all the slaves he had inherited."
Somehow, it didn't surprise her that patricide was mentioned just casually with this man. Yalene also didn't even want to know what happened to rejected slaves when the inevitable backstabbing and bloodshedding in the name of promotion began. It was also disturbing to even imagine that the Captain would 'use' his father's slaves. It was even more disturbing to know that Agnés had spent half of her life as a Druchii slave and possibly didn't know anything else anymore. "It was lucky that he was actually looking for personal slaves. When he heard that I had finished my training as a seamstress and Agnés had already started to learn the craft, he claimed us immediately." She tipped her chin. "He received Rahat as a gift from an Arabyan trader three years ago. Ironically, she's spent her whole life either on Druchii or Arabyan vessels and was always gifted or sold as a dancer. Don't bother her asking for stories … she doesn't can't speak. Some slaver must have taken her tongue before she came here. But she still talks plenty with her face and hands." That was just horrible. To mutilate other human beings was despicable, and for some reason, it was even worse that this had been done by fellow human beings. Additionally, spending one's whole life presumably on slaver vessels just had to take a toll, especially when one was traded back and forth. Given that background, Rahat seemed remarkably well-adjusted.
Mireille continued. "Lavinia and Hjördis were caught two months ago after battles with their ships. As I said, Lavinia only speaks her language that nobody understands. Hjördis speaks her Norscan language and a few words of Reikspiel, so only Katharina can understand at all what she is saying. Katharina herself was singled out after a raid on an Imperial village after Captain Blackwater spotted her two years ago. She was a servant, I think. Anyway, he just liked how she looked, and she has been his favourite ever since." And his favourite she shall remain if the woman liked that. That was a lot to take in and a lot of tragedy for one little part of the hold.
"So …" Yalene began with as much tact as she could muster. " … you fulfilled your end of the bargain. Can't he just fulfil his part?"
Mireille shrugged. "And then what? Let's say she returns to Bretonnia, safe and sound, and reaches our uncle in the neighbouring town. She will still have to pay most of her earnings to a noble who can't be bothered to protect his people when they need him. She will still starve in winter, still be harassed by entitled nobles if they fancy to do so and still be beaten when she says one word out of line. Thanks, she does well enough here." It was heartbreaking to see this woman say those words that Yalene knew were the bitter truth. From Mireille's perspective, Bretonnia had failed her, and the only people ever to have shown her kindness had possibly killed a large part of her family. Yet it was the Bretonnians that she held responsible, in part for good reason. The peasantry works and the Bretonnian Knights protect … that was the bargain. It might not have been possible to dispatch enough forces in time, but the simple fact was that the nobles had not delivered. So Mireille made the very best of the situation she was in, but no matter how much she stressed that the women in this hold were well-treated, that this was the best that could have happened, that they would not be abused, it was still wrong. Ruvol Blackwater still had stolen their freedom and agency from them and had made himself to be the centre of their lives. No matter how much sugar was used to coat this truth, it was still the truth. It just so happened that Mireille had been deprived of these things first. Still, what kind of world was this when a woman considered her family being enslaved or killed and herself being enslaved by Dark Elves a lucky turn in her life?
"Does he … you know, take a slave to his bed every night?" It seemed strange to ask so directly, but Mireille didn't seem to mind. In fact, her response seemed remarkably casual.
"He does, Agnés excluded. He jokes that he just waits until she is an adult, but I'm not certain if that is true any longer. He doesn't seem the type to sleep with a girl he has watched growing up, and I think the thought makes him uncomfortable. Cevirin hasn't been called into his cabin in four years, and he calls Rahat up for mostly for entertainment, music and dancing. She also plays a mean game of cards, which he likes. I think they have some naughty game within a game going on there. He sleeps with me occasionally, but most of the time when I get called up, we snuggle a little and I get a good night's sleep. But we all know that we will not sleep well when Katharina, Hjördis or Lavinia are in his cabin. Loud romping, sometimes until the wee hours of the morning. Although with Hjördis, everybody can tell that it's pure, mutual hate." She almost rolled her eyes, before her gaze wandered to the hammock in which the Tilean was lying, while Yalene still tried to process a sentence that contained a Dark Elf and snuggling in one breath without being a joke. When she thought about it, he had been rather enthusiastic about the post-coitus snuggle. Huh. Even monsters and bastards had the need for snuggling. That sounded so wrong.
To preserve her sanity, she followed Mireille's gaze. "Do you think she's awake?"
"Oh, she is."
"Will she be upset if she sees another slave?"
"No."
"Will she be upset if she sees another Druchii?"
"Definitely." The Bretonnian raised her voice a little. "Lavinia! You can't stay there all day."
The answer came in the form of a disgusted noise that, if written down, Yalene would have spelled 'ugh'. Then, the Tilean finally turned her head towards both of them, only to spot Yalene and promptly throw a pillow at her. The first missed, but the second one hit its mark beautifully in the face. Something that was not in Yalene's vocabulary but sounded suspiciously like a dismissive judgement about Dark Elves in general and how she was fed up with them was grumbled afterwards. Mireille watched impassively with a somewhat resigned look on her face, as if she, just like Yalene, was merely waiting until the Tilean stopped her demands that the Druchii should leave her alone at once. From what Yalene could understand, her parentage, her supposed profession as a prostitute, her nether regions and the nether regions of her mother were all called out in colourful detail.
The Tilean then rose clumsily to her feet, sat down and kept chatting in her own tongue about things that were too fast for Yalene to understand. In the end, she held up a hand.
"Slower, please." Two simple words in a language half-forgotten, words that Yalene had to truly think about before she had interjected calmly. She also could hear that her accent was terrible, but it was enough to give both of the other women pause and stare at her in surprise. A whole ship full of Dark Elves, and none of them had taken the time to learn a common language like this and had to be helped out by a soul-misplaced human scholar. That wasn't funny. She let the silence speak for itself.
Lavinia now stared at her, unblinking, and Yalene could see why the Captain had taken a liking to her. She was a beauty, skin in a darker hue, heart-shaped face and the most beautiful, expressive hazel eyes that now welled with tears. Lavinia didn't remain a statue and stumbled towards Yalene, didn't care that she was sitting on the floor and just let herself fall on the ground and buried her face in Yalene's lap, sobbing her heart out.
"Thank you. Thank you. Thank you." She whispered in her melodic tongue, over and over again. "You have no idea what it's been like."
"Lonely." Yalene merely replied understandingly, stroking over the younger woman's hair.