1st Fall, 516AV.
One year.
It had been one year since Coryn fell from the night, landing in the sea outside Syliras’ walled city. Her memory of those first few bells were patchy – she remembered strong, cold hands hauling her out of the water and covering her in a salt-stained itchy blanket. They had been kind, or so she had been told.
What Coryn did remember was the infirmary afterwards, waking up with a great, gasping breath of life. She regarded that moment – that gasp of awakening – as the very moment her life reached its pathetic zenith. Since then, her experience had only sunken lower, lower. There was that pathetic apartment in the bowels of the castle she’d lived in, her job as a waitress in the tavern where men groped and women bitched. There was the moment she overheard a conversation about Kenash, a place of opportunity for those who were willing to try. And then she left the city, travelling with a party of faceless, nameless people who she either couldn’t remember of refused to.
No, don’t think about them.
You can’t.
Knuckles turned white, teeth were grimaced as Coryn braced herself for a painful moment. The faces, voices and touches washed over the Ethaefal like a muscle spasm. She inhaled sharply and exhaled slowly to gather her thoughts. Eventually her muscles relaxed and Coryn’s mind moved on.
Yes, it had been an eventful year since her rebirth. She had been a sick woman, a barwoman, a travelling woman, a slave woman
She was still a slave woman, for that matter.
But when you’re a slave, Coryn had quickly realised, you don’t count as a woman. Even when part of your role – albeit a small part – required you to lie on your back whilst some brute huffed away inside you. No -- you were a thing, a commodity. In Coryn’s case, she was a pair of hands that rubbed and pushed away into the layers of fat and muscles that formed her clients. Except they weren’t her clients. There was no equal footing between Coryn and the men and women she massaged. They were a man or woman, whereas she was a thing.
It was a hard lifestyle, one that demanded much but gave nothing. This entire past year had given very little back, for that matter.
And it was beginning to show. Coryn – though her race and her Goddess-given gift still placed her in a category of beauty quite unlike many others - was looking exhausted. Dark circles shadowed her eyes and her black hair was now waist-length, ratty at the ends thanks to an entire year without a single trim. There was little fat on her, even less than before, so now her cheekbones cut out of her face in a harsh manner. The saving grace was her skin; any leftover massage oils were quickly rubbed into her body and face at the first opportunity.
Hey, a girl still had to allow herself some loyalties.
But there would be no such opportunity today. Coryn had drawn the metaphorical short straw, having been released from her masseuse responsibilities in order to run errands for her owners. During her first few seasons as a slave, the promise of not rubbing down unfamiliar men and women had initially seemed to be a treat. But Coryn had learned that the relative safety of the massage house was vastly counterbalanced by the danger of Kenash itself. Though she was a slave to a dynasty household, she was a slave, a thing.
And things didn’t deserve respect.
The temptation to run away from it all struck Coryn in every fibre of her being, but there was something even stronger that kept her anchored to this city of sin and slaves. And Coryn hated herself for that very fact more than she could ever both disliking her owners.
The Svefra sighed, glanced up to the clouded sky overheard, and continued on her way.
One year.
It had been one year since Coryn fell from the night, landing in the sea outside Syliras’ walled city. Her memory of those first few bells were patchy – she remembered strong, cold hands hauling her out of the water and covering her in a salt-stained itchy blanket. They had been kind, or so she had been told.
What Coryn did remember was the infirmary afterwards, waking up with a great, gasping breath of life. She regarded that moment – that gasp of awakening – as the very moment her life reached its pathetic zenith. Since then, her experience had only sunken lower, lower. There was that pathetic apartment in the bowels of the castle she’d lived in, her job as a waitress in the tavern where men groped and women bitched. There was the moment she overheard a conversation about Kenash, a place of opportunity for those who were willing to try. And then she left the city, travelling with a party of faceless, nameless people who she either couldn’t remember of refused to.
No, don’t think about them.
You can’t.
Knuckles turned white, teeth were grimaced as Coryn braced herself for a painful moment. The faces, voices and touches washed over the Ethaefal like a muscle spasm. She inhaled sharply and exhaled slowly to gather her thoughts. Eventually her muscles relaxed and Coryn’s mind moved on.
Yes, it had been an eventful year since her rebirth. She had been a sick woman, a barwoman, a travelling woman, a slave woman
She was still a slave woman, for that matter.
But when you’re a slave, Coryn had quickly realised, you don’t count as a woman. Even when part of your role – albeit a small part – required you to lie on your back whilst some brute huffed away inside you. No -- you were a thing, a commodity. In Coryn’s case, she was a pair of hands that rubbed and pushed away into the layers of fat and muscles that formed her clients. Except they weren’t her clients. There was no equal footing between Coryn and the men and women she massaged. They were a man or woman, whereas she was a thing.
It was a hard lifestyle, one that demanded much but gave nothing. This entire past year had given very little back, for that matter.
And it was beginning to show. Coryn – though her race and her Goddess-given gift still placed her in a category of beauty quite unlike many others - was looking exhausted. Dark circles shadowed her eyes and her black hair was now waist-length, ratty at the ends thanks to an entire year without a single trim. There was little fat on her, even less than before, so now her cheekbones cut out of her face in a harsh manner. The saving grace was her skin; any leftover massage oils were quickly rubbed into her body and face at the first opportunity.
Hey, a girl still had to allow herself some loyalties.
But there would be no such opportunity today. Coryn had drawn the metaphorical short straw, having been released from her masseuse responsibilities in order to run errands for her owners. During her first few seasons as a slave, the promise of not rubbing down unfamiliar men and women had initially seemed to be a treat. But Coryn had learned that the relative safety of the massage house was vastly counterbalanced by the danger of Kenash itself. Though she was a slave to a dynasty household, she was a slave, a thing.
And things didn’t deserve respect.
The temptation to run away from it all struck Coryn in every fibre of her being, but there was something even stronger that kept her anchored to this city of sin and slaves. And Coryn hated herself for that very fact more than she could ever both disliking her owners.
The Svefra sighed, glanced up to the clouded sky overheard, and continued on her way.
