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Need food! Must snare. [Salara Kel'Halavath]

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A city floating in the center of a lake, Ravok is a place of dark beauty, romance and culture. Behind it all though is the presence of Rhysol, God of Evil and Betrayal. The city is controlled by The Black Sun, a religious organization devoted to Rhysol. [Lore]

Snaring the Strange

Postby Rohka on November 22nd, 2017, 8:49 pm

Rohka paused her movements, the knife still gripped in her hand, her mouth firm. She’d listened to the Kelvic’s answer, knowing full well that they would disagree, but not knowing that the nickname would fall through. It was a habit that Roh would never learn to lose—she enjoyed bypassing the stage of acquaintances quicker than most people. Salara’s wish to be called by her full name was entirely understandable, and the young Calico nodded with respect.

“Very well, ’Salara’ it is. Would you like to come sit with me? It’s only fair to share, since you helped. I’ll be taking the loins and belly meat home though; they’re my favourite.” Rohka smiled and continued onto the gutting process. The Kelvic would be right in her estimations about Roh’s level of squeamishness. A part of her honestly enjoyed the process of getting her hands dirty; the creature was no longer a creature anymore, it was a bag of flesh. Plain, lifeless, moldable, cookable material. It was almost fun to be able to awkwardly cut into the belly, being careful not to slice open the colon, and using her fingers to lift the skin away from the intestines. The extra effort was met with a sharp click of her tongue when she realized that she'd punctured the stomach. An awful smell erupted from the dead creature, causing her to scrunch her nose and attempt to work faster. It was a meticulous practice that required her full attention while she quickly tried to remove the spilling innards with one steady motion, pulling out the organs and clearing out the remnant membranes. She grinned when she saw that the liver was deep red, a sign that the rabbit had been healthy.

“You did the honour of ending its vitality, so if you care for its deliciousness, I’d like you to have the heart.” Rohka held up the tiny, dripping organ with her fingers as she watched the Kelvic’s eyes, smiling, and then laid the heart atop a dry leaf. “The liver and kidneys are yummy too, we’re keeping those. Salara, would you help me set up a fire while I butcher the meat?” She was be fine with any answer, so she continued on without waiting. “I don’t wish to order you around, you know. Like I said, you’re not my slave, so I wouldn’t treat you like one. Speaking of which, what made you think that I wouldn’t be kind to those who work for us? All I said was that kindness is irrelevant to doing the job. That doesn’t mean I’m unkind. The slave who was with me earlier was ordered to help me because she wished to gain the ranks within my uncle’s whoring cohort,” she said with bored contempt. “That slave isn’t mine, she was basically using me, and she couldn’t properly do what I needed her to do. That woman is worthless to me. I didn’t even want her here—why should I care if she likes doing things for me?”

Rohka washed the remaining blood, hair, guts, and debris off the meat, pouring out half of what was in her waterskin, having filled it near the stream earlier. She then turned to the tree stump that she'd been leaning against, swept it with her arm and then plopped the skinless rabbit onto the flat surface. She began to field dress, focusing on the front legs first as she spoke. “You said you weren’t born here, Salara. I don’t know how Kelvics behave outside of Ravok. I’ve never been out of the city,” the young Calico looked up briefly, a slight wistfulness in her umber gaze. She’d felt the gravity with which Salara had spoken of her past and tried to keep her voice both warm and stern. “But here, in Rhysol’s good graces, a Kelvic slave is valuable. If you were treated as anything less than valuable, then shame on your owner. And for such an owner to make you think that survival is all there is to life? I pity the fool.”

There was a growing sense of anger in Roh’s voice now, the origin of the feeling was difficult to locate, even within herself. She chopped off belly with a harsh hiss when she clumsily nicked herself, biting her lip to hold back the shooting pain as she concentrated on chopping off the back legs, snapping the hip joint with her fingers. “You’re in Ravok, love!” The statement was stressed with fervour, intensified by the throbbing of the scratch on her finger. An fierce wish to be understood poured out through her tone. “This isn’t a city where you survive, it’s a home for us to thrive!” Rohka was looking straight at her now, her knife held up in preparation to cut the loins that lined the top and bottom of the spine. She would save these portions for herself and her family. She would take them home.

“I’m sorry, Salara. You might not see these things the way I do. I grew up here my whole life and I only wish to serve my God through my actions. We flourish because of Him, and I’m grateful. You don’t have to agree with me, you know. We can share this meal and then part ways, and then you won’t have to care what I do with my life. But if any part of you wishes to grow, to be competent, to be valued,” she paused, the amateur dressing complete. Roh looked calmer now. A certain contentedness settled into the planes of her cheeks. “Then stay with me.”

There was no telling what the Calico meant by ‘stay’ in that moment. They would find out sooner than later.

In the midst of Salara’s reply, the noise of a figure walking towards them interrupted their conversation.
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Snaring the Strange

Postby Salara Kel'Halavath on December 6th, 2017, 2:43 am

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It felt friendly to be invited to watch the game dressing more closely so Salara settled beside Rohka sharing the log backrest. As she watched the young woman disembowel the kill she realized this was the most comfortable she’d ever been in the company of another. The thought brought her pause, not in self-pity exactly, but upon a realization of her here-to-now loneliness. She tried to ignore the suspicion that whispered through her mind that this was a dangerous realization. It was much safer being hard and aloof if she shied from companionship. Through distance one could not be controlled, hurt or deceived, but oh… she was learning the price. How hard would this lesson be?

Roh pulled the choicest of tiny bits from the offal, offering the life’s muscle to the Kelvic. Despite herself Salara had to wipe a hint of drool from the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand before reaching for it with a delicate touch. Pinched between thumb and forefinger she could feel the residual heat as she brought it to her lips for deposit upon her tongue. Shutting her eyes to concentrate on taste, the morsel rolled briefly about her mouth before being caught between sharp molars and in a blissful swallow it was gone.

‘…set up a fire…’ her eyes opened at the request and almost eagerly she pulled herself away from the temptation of more tiny morsels in danger of being snatched by her unruly fingers. “Yes, of course,” she answered willingly. Pulling a fallen branch free from the forest’s clutching grasses she used it to sweep away dry debris in a flat gravely area near the stream. Salara listened as Rohka explained the slave’s willingness to be a whore, using Roh and her opinion on how kindly or unkindly the woman had been treated.

Her head shook in wonder as she proceeded to break thinner twigs from the makeshift broom to be leaned against each other at the center of the cleared circle in a cone as she’d started fires in the mercantile stove. Their perspectives were entirely contradictory. How people could live side by side but in two different worlds was a mystery to her. Perhaps, Salara decided, she should practice what she preached and take the first step in learning more about Rohka’s world with the hope of finding a way to better understand or make her companion understand. It was just so much more dangerous for her to take that step…should her expectations prove true.

Gathering and breaking thicker twigs and branches she set them aside as Roh commented upon her past. Sadly she looked into the wistful umber gaze almost whispering the reveal, “I do not remember anything but being in Ravok. Valued, but with no rights or ability to decide anything on my own. I was not willing.” Her eyes grew hard in remembrance, “I did not choose and I had no pity for the fool, not even when he died.” Pride then crept into her tone, “But I did choose to remain free. To dodge, conceal and provide for myself. That alone is worth any suffering versus being ‘cared for’ by someone who did not care for me.”

Finishing fire preparations Salara was worried she had revealed too much as Rohka’s voice turned angry. Warily she watched the woman’s deliberate efforts become hack and snap as she finished cleaning the carcass with an emphatic statement, ‘This isn’t a city where you survive, it’s a home for us to thrive!’ Her unbending belief in Rhysol was clear such that Salara wished she could believe so whole-heartedly in the truth of the god of lies, but instead she simply said, “I’ve no flint or steel to strike the fire…”

The snap, crackle of footsteps approaching turned her head as she heard, ‘then stay with me.’ Instinctively tensing, head cocked to listen, quick calculations ran through her head - one set of footsteps, not hesitant but not decisive. The slave? A Calico? Should she stand firm or flee? Should she trust Rohka to keep her safe? What did ‘safe’ mean? Clearly it would mean something different for them all.

Curiosity, her own personal devil, taunted her indecision. ‘Let us see…’ it coaxed.

@>~>~~ ~~<~<@

Janie doggedly trod the trail for the third time; back to the young mistress she was ordered to follow and then leave. To and fro, back and forth, 'go here' says one and 'go there' says another. Mary, the uppity slave who considered herself above all the others owned by the Calico’s, had scolded her for leaving the young mistress alone in the woods. Mistress Vida would surely be told. Rhysol’s Bloody Balls, but what else could she have done? Watched hidden from a distance? Not returned as ordered? To have done so would have meant a whipping for certain. Stumbling over a toe-caught snag she winced a limped step or two with a lip caught between her teeth to keep from crying out.

Cold, she pulled her ragged felt cloak more tightly over a faded gown; and almost looked forward to the uncle’s return. Then she would be allowed to wear finer clothing and, at least when it was her turn, lay upon smooth sheets and soft pillows. She had come a long way from the back breaking chores of a field slave to washer woman where hot water and lye soap had softened coarse callouses. Water and steam from clean linen more cleansing than dirt and roots. Janie had finally caught the eye of a slave trader who saw the value of her thin but bosomed frame and the length of her bedraggled blonde hair. She’d fetched a good price, but she knew it likely would be the best she’d ever get. A whore enjoyed the finer things for a short time but there wasn’t much left of them after. She’d have lived longer as a house slave but truly who would want that?

Janie’s steps faltered a moment as the young mistress’s words floated to her above footsteps’ crunch and the babbling stream, ‘then stay with me.’ Face blanching in worry at whom she would be speaking to, Janie lifted her skirts to step more briskly. If any harm would come to the girl it would fall on her head. Ahead through the trees she saw the young mistress holding a knife kneeling next to a large fallen log. As she cleared the final brush screening her view two heads turned in her direction.

Stiffening to a standstill, her dull eyes sparked to life to see a nubile slat-ribbed girl speaking to mistress. The blonde girl was leggy as a colt, relatively unmarred; and if she didn’t know better, by the state of undress a ‘valuable’ Kelvic. Most likely a threat to her own future if the animal was brought to the Calico estate.

The glare resting upon the Kelvic dropped to the ground and disappeared as Janie turned toward the young Calico, “Mistress?”

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