CW:

slave trade.

Character takes off shirt

more snek god things

I freeze, locked in place as a little jungle mouse would be under the gaze of a predator. A bird of prey circling above, waiting to decide if this little morsel is one worth diving for.

I wrap a Naranggas around Tretion’s soul in worry and fear… but to anyone watching It would seem a possessive thing. One done by a slaver to her property. The realization is what jolts my eyes from the god’s gaze. Makes me remember why I am here.

So with a Deeeeeeeeeeep Dreamer blighted breath, I begin to walk forward toward the throne’s steps.

“My name is Lyra, and I’m here to claim my freedom.” I call up to them. Voice echoes in the suddenly very quiet room.

“You were Thendra’s.” A horrid, slightly lazy smile curls at the being’s lips. Their voice is deep, but… soft. Soft as the pads of flesh beneath a panther’s talons.

It’s not a question. Just… part of the ceremony.

“No more.” I growl gently, worried that Tretion had all this wrong, and I’m about to insult something very big and very very scary. “And I will Reave anyone who tries to claim me as their own.”

Furthonois pauses, then nods. Eyes drift to the watcher at my side. “From the lack of Reaver skulls in your arms I take it this is your offering?”

I almost wince at the imagery of that, but force the words out. “She is. Tretion, Granddaughter of Detlina who was a Matron of Watchers.”

A beat, and then a single tendril of Amwella begins to stretch down toward us to–

“Honored Furthonois.” A voice calls out from behind us. I nearly jerk at the interruptions. My Naranggas have less self control, they whirl in angry and scared patterns toward the voice before I can even turn.

But the man stepping from the crowd doesn’t seem to notice, or… or maybe he doesn’t care? His skin is a pale purplish red, and horns jut from his skull like a mane. No hair besides a well-cut beard. A dark suit of pitch covers everything but his gloved hands and everything above the neck. A stave of glimmering granite tinks on the sandstone as he strides forward.

“Surely you don’t think to accept this insult?” He growls in a tone that seems both proud and clipped.

I can feel the god’s annoyance at this man’s interruption, but… they only wait.

The man stops, considers his next words as his eyes lock with mine. Such… cold fury fills them. “Is some half-breed watcher of a dead matron’s family truly worth such a soul? A Fae’s soul?”

Anyone with sense already knew from my song what I am, but a rumble passes through the crowd regardless.

The god just… purrs out a laugh. One that shakes the Amwella above us in such scary and hypnotizing patterns. “You were here when Thendra declared her, balked with the rest as she claimed a Fae soul was in her clutches and laid the offerings at my steps. Do you so quickly forget the words she used?”

The man grinds his teeth, sensing the turning tide of this argument. Then he just stiffens, nods. “Of course, It’s just…”

Furthonois twists a hand, “Not a dangerous Reaver, not a housekeeper or messenger, not even a woman of the six ways. What were her words, Lord Inokril, exactly?”

“Pillow Slave.” The Lord sighs. “Yes, but… look at her! She’s worth more than this! Should this temple not reject her paltry gift and demand she bring you a more worthy offering?”

Another laugh, “This temple sought to reject her six times, Even one of yours tried their hand. Do any others wish to attempt to stake a claim on this Fae?”

A long pause, Lord Inokril moves to speak, but is cut off by a sound… A long shrill thing that threatens such violence and pain to anyone who would…

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Oh… That’s me.

I end my hissing wail with a click of my teeth. Let my fear and anger drive down any embarrassment. Well… that and the satisfaction I get while the crowd seems to reel away from me. Even Inokril seems to take a shuffling step back as my Naranggas snap around my frame, a silent punctuation to the challenge the god laid out.

I look back, but Furthonois is giving me such a wide and terrifying grin.

“Would you not be more… satisfied if she were to bring you the head of her mistress?” Lord Inokril presses.

I turn a glare on him. “My last mistress stands beside me. I was gifted away.”

That… That gets a murmur of somethings from the crowd.

A bark of mirth sounds from the god at my back. “I will not demand she kill one who may still walk the old road. I accept this tribute and will hear no more of this temple’s whining about it.”

And before I can react, a tendril of dripping Amwella lurches down from the ceiling, grips the watcher’s soul while easily pushing my own from her. When I turn Tretion has already tumbled forward to kneel at the steps, is then pulled to sit on the bottom among other treasure piled to honor this horrid thing.

Then another tendril is drifting down toward me, and I stiffen. Focus on Tretion’s warnings and assurances. At what is gifted in payment for my offering.

A flash of light, a sting at the edges of my Amwella, and a few warning wriggles from my Naranggas. Then, when I look down again I spot a very small marking on my soul. One that glows and thrums with a little taste of the god’s power.

A brand that marks my soul as my own.

Free.

“It seems I have a soul to sell.” Furthonois purrs as the tendril retracts. “Do I have any offers?”

A long pause.

I… I’m free? I nearly fall over at the realization. At… at the furious storm of thought that writhes within me…

Better a slave than alone, better a slave than alone, better a slave than alone…

The new brand on my soul BURNS at the litany.

But I’m not a slave? Not… not…

A Reaver. One of Thendra’s. All that’s left is to return to her with the brand glowing hot and ring in my talon.

Two prizes of the three demanded...

I grind my teeth, and as a few shouts of offer are made, I reach into my shirt and draw out the ring and necklace it hangs from. Raise it high.

The room goes quiet.

“Are you making an offer, little Fae?” The Furthonois purrs.

I shake my head. “Not yet.”

A jerk and almost pleading look from Tretion as her eyes go wide with fear, a tilt of the head of confusion from the god.

This was not our plan, but… but I can’t chance a chase or conflict. Will not risk her safety on a stray blow or spell. No matter how willing she said she was.

“Tretion, you may ignore all my past commands.” I shout. “You will obey whoever holds this ring.”

And then I toss it forward to skitter loudly on the floor between myself and the god of slaves and slavers. A beat, then Furthonois is glancing down in interest in the watcher’s soul. Sees the curse, then their eyes widen in delight.

“Oh, This is wondrous work.” They coo. “I’ve not seen a curse like this in ages. Did you… yes you wrought this yourself. Such a… unexpected piece of art from one of the Fae!”

I will either return to Thendra free and with that ring, or not at all. I will not abandon this watcher to slavery and torment. I sigh as my soul sings this truth. I may belong to a monster, may crave her warmth and touch and desires…

But I will not become like the cruel things around me.

The god’s eyes dart back to me, and I shutter as I feel them examine my soul much closer. Then they nod.

“This little Fae has bound her watcher with curses of command more absolute and powerful than any your paltry collars can ever hope to match. Consider this as you place your offers.” Their voice drips with threats unsaid.

This continues, and as their tributes are laid out and rejected, I know that my initial hope to just give this sword and coin will not be enough. I hiss a silent curse, not expecting the admission of my curse’s power to increase her price! Was just… hoping my honesty would endear the thing to my future offerings. Maybe… maybe make it less likely to want Tretion if I could make her useless with a restrictive command.

But I do wait. Let… let the offers die down and continue to annoy this god more and more as I consider my two options.

Wait to steal her from whomever buys her and just… hope neither they or the god decide to gobble up her soul.

Or…

The room goes quiet, the last offer has brought a scowl to Furthonois. They are about to rebuke the room before–

“I offer you a boon of your choice.” I whisper into the quiet.

The room stills, the god turns to regard me.

Then they are moving, slithering down the steps, brushing aside treasures uncountable toward me. I fight to remain still, battle with my Naranggas to absolutely NOT strike at this thing that could crush me more easily than a bug.

They wind around and around and around me without actually touching flesh. Long snake-like tail creating a barrier of scales and great soulfire that I would have no hope of escaping. They settle before me, using the wall as a throne to sit just a few feet away.

A tense pause, and I can’t stop a shudder roll through me as I meet their gaze.

“Freshly unbound.” They muse quietly, A smile curls at their lips, sharp white teeth glimmer as I see a tongue whirl behind them. “What boon could you possibly hope to offer one such as me?”

I only offer a tired little smile and shrug in reply.

Let their imagination wander down the path I’ve laid. I am Fae, I wield Dreamer’s Lamentations like others wield this big heavy sword, and… and my Amwella sings of agony and death. A perfect siren song for this ancient thing to covet a bite of.

They laugh. Lean forward to purr quietly. “I’m soooo inclined to accept this offer…”

I'm fighting really really hard to not break this stare and look away. “But?”

Can’t show weakness here. Can’t let this big scary god think that I think they will eat me!

“No buts! I simply love to haggle.” They reach out, lay a big thin hand on my chest, just above my first curse.

“I have nothing else.” I murmur.

“No… but you may in the future.” They purr. “I prefer a debt to be paid when I call, rather than immediate satisfaction.”

“O– Okay. But, Why?” I stammer, have to look past them now. “That’s… I’m going to… I could be dead within the next few days. Dreamer’s Tits I might not survive the night with how many enemies I probably just made!”

They giggle, and it's such a cute and terrible thing coming from such a big scary monster. “No Lyra. I think you’ll live longer than even I have. Thendra will ensure this investment is a grand thing.”

My eyes snap back to theirs. “How did… How can you…”

Finger at my lips, whispers. “I’ll accept your offer, little Reaver, if it is a boon to be claimed in future dreaming.”

But they pause before pulling back, fingers linger on the big blood stained shirt. “Hmmm… and that.”

I glance down, confused. “What?”

“Your blood will ensure I remember your scent, and can call on you when I wish this debt repaid.”

I turn a glare back up to them. “You… You can’t be serious.”

But those blood red eyes show me just how serious this demand is. I huff and drag the shirt off. Stand glaring as their eyes dance over my half-naked form and hold out the bloody thing.

They smile as a tendril of Amwella crackles, retrieves the necklace and ring, then drops it into their waiting palm.

“The boon of an unbound and reforged Fae, for the body and soul of this cursed watcher.”

The trade is made, and I walk out of the temple with Tretion’s hand and soul clasped tight. Face a fury of relief and tension as what feels like a thousand eyes rake over my flesh. But… my Naranggas ward off any that might even consider challenging this Reaver.