Crymson Fira
The heavy air in the prison of metal and stone made it hard to breathe, the smell of disease and squalor weighing heavily upon it. The cheapest of the stock: the slaves which were poorly or hardly trained and rarely fed due to the disobedient state of mind. Some of the most unfit slaves laid chained up along the corridor to await death from the poor conditions. If it weren't for her constant visits she would have vomited a long while ago, her stomach held as she covered her nose and mouth with a handkerchief trying to ignore the vile smell of the mournful, rotting bodies laid huddled in their cells and along the dank, dark corridors of this cesspit, her colourful gown and fur stark contrast between the two worlds that occupied Memaji: The Masters and the Servants. 'Servant' due to political correctness, servants at least have a life of their own accord, these souls would most likely never see the day they may think for themselves they were merely slaves.
One final door at the end of the cramped corridor was her salvation from the grotesque display she had to walk through merely to get to a certain stock that was more to her own standards. The plump and grizzled slaver locked the door behind them as she tucked away her handkerchief between the rather modest and firm breasts that made up her chest, still caught up in the horrid smell of putrid, dying flesh, most likely coming from the slaver himself having spent most of, what surely couldn't be called, his late years beating sense into insubordinate slaves.
He gives a huff, his ring of keys making a racket as he clips them back on his belt with a odd gurgle in his throat. He gave a quick, raspy cough, the odd sounds this human made making her stomach entangle and groan, "Sorry milady, we're having another corridor built down the side of the building." The slaver grunted as he began to plod on down the corridor in front of her on the two stumps of flesh that composed of his legs, "It should be ready for use in a couple of days."
A short huff was all that she replied, receiving a impolite grunt in reply from the slaver due to her stuck-up attitude, conversing with these humans was appalling. She took a lungful of air from this bright prison, the scents of many breeds of slaves acting almost as a lure for her as she followed the man down the corridor, the heels of her stilettos clicking against the marble floor looking into the open cells of the slaves as she walked on by, slaves which were treated well, fed and taught to obey. Born into slavery and trained from a young age these were the most loyal subjects any aspiring owner would want to get their hands on, of course, their price reflected such distinguished breeding. At this point, the slaver was the one out of contrast in this hospitable environment.
Comments, Opinions, Kind Criticism would be greatly appreciated. I haven't ever written something apparently very detailed ever since I started writing. However if I were to post previous writings you would certainly notice a massive difference between them in terms of discriptiveness. If you don't have anything kinda to say don't say anything at all.
Crymson Fira and all Characters © Daniel Tufton 2010