swatkat

Random nonsense that one comes up with when one has not written anything for days, is shirking work and browsing through kinkmeme prompts instead. One also refers to oneself as 'one' and fails get to the actual kinky bits. Oh well.

*

'No? You disappoint me, Cara.' Mistress Denna's pout is entirely insincere. 'Will you not accept this small token of appreciation?'

There's a glint in her eyes now: huntress, toying with her prey.

'I'm honoured, Denna,' Cara says drily, 'but I have no use for a slave.' She has no use for Denna's games. In fact, she's weary, tired to the bone.

'Oh, I'm sure you can think of some uses,' Denna says, resting a white-gloved hand on Cara's shoulder in that familiar, proprietary fashion. The urge to move away, to lash out, is overwhelming, and Denna must know it too because she leans closer, purring, 'I know you can be creative, Cara.' Her breath is hot on Cara's face. 'Use your imagination.'

Cara says nothing in response, ignoring the way Denna's fingers run up and down her arm, teasing, intimate.

She trains her eyes on the ornate carvings on the wall, gaudy and golden. There is a reason why she prefers the simplicity of the Mord-Sith temples.

'You've lived by yourself for far too long,' Denna continues, voice dripping with sweetness and faux-concern, cloying.

'You've lived alone for far too long,' Denna continues, tone dripping with pretend-concern. 'A Mord-Sith of your stature, in that dismal little place—'

'My choice of residence does not affect my ability to serve Lord Rahl,' Cara retorts, before she can reign herself in, 'which is all you should be concerned with.'

It is, of course, the response Denna was looking for, because she tips her head back and laughs uproariously. It grates on Cara, sets her teeth on the edge—it is only a lifetime of unending discipline that makes her stay still while Denna laughs and laughs.

'Oh Cara,' she says after a while, still smiling her viper smile, 'I'm concerned about your well-being. As is Lord Rahl. You see, he seems to be under the impression that you are... how shall I put it? He seems to be under the impression that you are losing interest in your duties.'

Cara stiffens. 'I have been nothing but a loyal servant of Lord Rahl,' she says, drawing herself very straight. 'I have done my utmost to serve him in every possible way, and I—'

There's that patronizing arm on her shoulder again, and Denna says, 'Who said anything about your loyalty? Lord Rahl is concerned about you. We are concerned about you. You fight but there's no passion in it. You lead from the front in every battle but you don't seem care about its outcome. You live in that miserable little hut and you socialize with no one, not even your own sisters.' There's the tiniest hint of hurt in those last words, no doubt fabricated to produce guilt. Mistress Denna is a fine actor, as Cara has had occasion to know over the years. 'It's as though your fire has gone out,' she finishes, with a melodramatic flourish. 'It's unacceptable.'

'I apologize,' Cara says, not looking Denna in the eye. This, clearly, is a new game, a new trap of some sorts, and Cara will have no part in it, not if she can help herself. 'I will try and make amends in the future.'

In response, Denna cups her jaw with a white-gloved hand and kisses her squarely on the mouth. It's possessive, and a little rough, teeth nipping hard enough to draw blood from Cara's lower lip. 'Good girl,' Denna says as she pulls away, almost affectionate. 'Now do as I say and accept your reward.'

A test, then.

'As you wish, Mistress,' Cara says, bowing her head. Denna's answering smile is incredibly smug.

Cara was barely finished with her report when Hally arrived with the summons, 'Mistress Denna wishes to see you.'

'Can it wait?' Cara had said, more than a little annoyed. A month spent in the Eastern provinces, quelling mutinies and punishing traitors, worshippers of that upstart Seeker, detractors of Lord Rahl—Cara was exhausted. 'What's this about?'

'She said it's important' was all Hally would say.

The slaves are lined up in the courtyard, a motley crew of men and women in various states of undress. Prisoners of war, mostly; an occasional gift or two from a visiting noble, eager to impress the almighty Darken Rahl.

'Stand straight!' a guard barks, cracking his whip in the air. 'No slouching!'

'Take your pick,' Denna says, smiling, indulgent, her white leather gleaming in the sun. Cara would not know where to begin.

Still, it is a test, a test she is determined to pass, just like every other test Denna has thrown at her. And so she inspects the slaves, one by one, until a particular one catches her eye: a woman in black rags, a cut on her cheek and a Rada'Han around her neck. She's tall, the slave, and built like she has known combat. Even the dirt and the blood and her current humbled state does not conceal her striking beauty, the unusual way she holds herself—head held high, unafraid.

'That one, over there,' Cara says casually. 'Is she a witch?'

'From the North,' Denna says. 'They say she has powerful magic.'

Her eyes, Cara notes, are a piercing blue.

'A fine-looking woman,' Denna says, approving. 'I was considering offering her to Lord Rahl. You know how he appreciates a handsome woman in chains,' she adds with a small smirk.

'To Lord Rahl, then,' Cara says, not rising to the bait. 'I wouldn't wish to—'

'No, no,' Denna interrupts, 'you're not getting away so easily, Cara. I said you must have a reward. Do you want that one?'

Cara looks at the slave again. The Rada'Han around her neck glints in the sun. 'Yes,' Cara says. 'She'll do.'

The ride back home is a quiet one, without incident. Cara keeps her horse at a gentle pace, much to the creature's bewilderment, and the slave follows on foot.

It's almost sunset by the time they reach Cara's private residence, a small wooden cottage in a clearing by the forest, at the very edges of Blackwater village—a rural community so dull and eventless that one such as Mistress Denna, given to the pleasures of the bustling D'Haran capital, would not survive even a day in it. Indeed, it became a matter of intense discussion and gossip when Cara opted for such a place to stay, away from the opulence of the People's Palce and the commotion of D'Hara City. Cara has never cared to explain herself. The villagers, for their part, are simple-minded peasants, in awe of her Mord'Sith leather. They tend to leave her alone, mostly, although there has been an occasion or two where Cara has been called upon to settle a stubborn dispute with her authority and her Agiels. It's a state of affairs that suits Cara very well—she enjoys the quiet, the dullness, the relative lack of human company.

The cottage is beautiful now, warm and welcoming—if a little unlived in after her long absence—in the late evening light. If Cara were the sort of person to wax poetic on the wind and fallen leaves, now would be the time to indulge. As it is, she concentrates on immediate concerns: looking after her horse, and, of course, finding an appropriate manner of negotiating with her newest... possession. Her slave, who appears to be looking around the premises with a mingled expression of interest and, again, that curious lack of fear that caught Cara's eye at the very beginning.

Cara has never cared for objects—things. Her weapons, her uniform, a fine horse to carry her and a sturdy bed to rest upon—that's all she has ever asked for, all that she has ever cared to own. And now, on Denna's insistence, it seems that she owns a person.

If it didn't mean swallowing her pride and admitting that she has been outfoxed by Mistress Denna, Cara would voluntarily return her the very next day and ask for another horse.