( Two girls, sold cleanly and willing. This was the slaver’s tale, and he told it well, mouth cleaved in a generous grin, once handsome. He might have been a whisperer of a king’s counsel in another life, but he was turned now to butchery and the practicalities of making ends meet in a citadel of the dead.
These, then, are the excuses: that the girls, these and the dozens that preceded him, sought master Qvasir for refuge. That he gave them this and more, and all that was his to share, that he would give even further and gladly — all for a meagre price. Company, is that so much to ask for? In this day and age. And should fresh entrants into a household not wish to keep it well, should they spit upon the cheek of gratitude and run from any duties of toil? And should he, Qvasir, then not give them chase? And the example of his hand, should it not be firm and strong and prone to discipline, so that he might guide them down the proper path?
This was not slavery, and if it were, it is not ill done. So he said, when Lan Wangji, the two women like wraiths cowered behind him, brought the question. Then the accusation. Then, in rapid swing, his sword.
Now, he has returned to the streets, trail of two strays behind him, their gazes shy, awkward and, he knows, afraid — because what is he, for all he names himself a liberator, but another crude tyrant who bartered his way with steel? He has attempted every manner of explanation, of entreaty, begging them to flee.
There is nowhere, they say, to go. And at least Lan Wangji has not beaten them.
By the time he crosses paths with one of his companions on the road, he is on the cusp of frustration, hissing by way of greeting: )
We require no — ( Slaves stains his lips, sours his mouth. He looks away. ) ...assistance. Tell them so.
( Clearly, the girls, still following, won’t heed Lan Wangji on the count. )
hatthevar ► chains, breaking
( Two girls, sold cleanly and willing. This was the slaver’s tale, and he told it well, mouth cleaved in a generous grin, once handsome. He might have been a whisperer of a king’s counsel in another life, but he was turned now to butchery and the practicalities of making ends meet in a citadel of the dead.
These, then, are the excuses: that the girls, these and the dozens that preceded him, sought master Qvasir for refuge. That he gave them this and more, and all that was his to share, that he would give even further and gladly — all for a meagre price. Company, is that so much to ask for? In this day and age. And should fresh entrants into a household not wish to keep it well, should they spit upon the cheek of gratitude and run from any duties of toil? And should he, Qvasir, then not give them chase? And the example of his hand, should it not be firm and strong and prone to discipline, so that he might guide them down the proper path?
This was not slavery, and if it were, it is not ill done. So he said, when Lan Wangji, the two women like wraiths cowered behind him, brought the question. Then the accusation. Then, in rapid swing, his sword.
Now, he has returned to the streets, trail of two strays behind him, their gazes shy, awkward and, he knows, afraid — because what is he, for all he names himself a liberator, but another crude tyrant who bartered his way with steel? He has attempted every manner of explanation, of entreaty, begging them to flee.
There is nowhere, they say, to go. And at least Lan Wangji has not beaten them.
By the time he crosses paths with one of his companions on the road, he is on the cusp of frustration, hissing by way of greeting: )
We require no — ( Slaves stains his lips, sours his mouth. He looks away. ) ...assistance. Tell them so.
( Clearly, the girls, still following, won’t heed Lan Wangji on the count. )