Oro Goldsmythe was born an unnamed slave. Nearly from the moment she took her first breath, she found herself alone, terrified, and vulnerable.
Her mother, a skilled satyr praised for her charm and musical talent, had served her slave-trader owner for nearly three decades before Oro was born. Mother enjoyed a relatively comfortable life at that time. Her value, which was substantial, was based on her unmarred beauty, skill with instruments, and skill with eager men. She was a clever satyr, too, capable of learning to read, write, and sing in as many as 6 different languages – unheard of for the low-cast slaves of House Servitor.
Her father, a wild, untamed, and unnamed beast of a satyr, also served the same elven slave-trader. A recent capture, he had been stolen from his homeland and tribe, only to be forced into chains and servitude. Unlike Mother’s graceful nature, he bristled with rage and fury with every action. Dark and ominous, Father was good for two things according to the slave trader: battle and making baby satyrs – the next generation of slaves.
When Mother and Father met, accidentally, during a performance, the Sylvan elves who had been watching became enraptured with the two. Although the slave trader protested profusely, there was no denying the perverted sport the elves requested – no – demanded. That faithed evening resulted in Mother’s pregnancy. As it was not by the trader’s design, Mother’s owner became enraged upon discovering her compromised condition. For several months, she languished in dirty chains and dirty cages as punishment before her anticipated wildling was born.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
As soon as the young Oro took her first breath and let out the first of many tearful cries, she was drenched in her Mother’s blood… both from birthing and from slaughter. The slave trader showed no mercy.
Oro never knew her Father.
Oro was born both beautiful and beastly, encompassing the dominant traits of her parents. Her fair, delicate features framed eerily dark, black sclera eyes. Her long, wild black hair would have groomed nicely, if she had allowed anyone to touch her. Her temperament lingered somewhere between charming introspection and rageful outbursts. She was wild, despite her chains and the slaver’s whips.
Eventually, the young female satyr had become simply too much trouble for the trader to keep. He had grown tired of her constant cries and caged, violent gaze. He felt the weight of her Mothers’ slaughter with every interaction, and couldn’t bare the bloodstains he imagined in her black pooled eyes. Perhaps she would grow to seek revenge? Perhaps she would be too much like her father and not malleable enough like her mother? She was dangerous and too risky keep, but too expensive to simply dispose of. He would have to sell her, and he knew just the elf to buy her.