From slavery to servitude 3: Unsavory picks

His sleep wavers after much time, leaving his scrawny eyes to slowly stretch open. An indiscriminate amount of time has passed since. How much, he cannot tell. Not in his new surroundings. All he could think of this new place was how polished but equally dull the iron was. Much like the tower of the Steel Moratorium.

He wakes up on the side, half of his body laid on the platform on eyes decreasingly blurry. It feels cold and hard, as expected from what slowly reveals to be a cage. The evidence? The many bars that surround him, presenting their dull luster to his waking mind.

Slightly raising his eyes to get a better look at his immediate area, he sees a ceiling where all the bars connect. A flat surface over his head. And one under his groggy body.

"..." George slowly makes himself sitting atop the platform, shining an already paltry glare, now eyeing the more distant surroundings. His body was coming down as much as he was, recovering his sense of hearing.

Cries. Wails. Mostly wails. These were the first sounds to greet his ears as he noticed hundreds of abundant cages. Hundreds upon hundreds. All of them had someone locked within, either wailing or still locked in a deep sleep from the receding poison.

The wails...they weren't despairing ones as he expected. Besides the cages, the captors were nearby. Many were looking over what was, to them, 'merchandise'. Stocks to fill their coffins or their needs.

"Hmm, what commodities we have here", speaks one not too far. She was leaning down one of the many coops, watching a man still ripe with their 'produce'. He was aflame still, his body, long surrendered to the pleasuring effect of the stuff that no longer clouded their empty city.

"Indeed, it seems the 'persuasion' really took with them. Isolated cities are such treats with how boring the slaves are here. It makes for fresh fleshlings ripe for the best immersions into their new fate. Those mongrels will thank us soon enough". A second one stands by her side, smirking as much as the first darkened elf.

They speak, their voices long becoming white noise to George who already lost interest. Why did he go and even have the faintest of delusions about those people? Because their methods of conquering were with poison? The sort specifically made to induce pleasure in their victims? No, that is no chance, hearing how they speak. Nothing changed...save for the ones at the tops. Greased up wealthy men, now dethroned by nubile slavers, the former, likely locked up in a--

George's head nudges slightly. There are more of them walking. More of them wandering by. Women with dark with knife-sharp ears now wander the place, setting at the heart of what was once the city's plaza, now a visual cacophony of bars and metal.

Many, many more women in black come about, following a set of carts hoisted by two massive black horses. From the distance, even George can see how unlike a normal horse these are, armored and iron-toned in muscles. Their glare is as malevolent as their mistresses, gleefully dragging more cages. The sort that brings many of the elves to their views in hurried steps.

Their unceremonious stomping and walking bring their just their attention to the majority, if not every single attendant in the plaza. Willing or not. George knows the sort of parade they play. A showing of force like the previous leaders' showing of wealth. They want to make a strong first impression, one that doesn't last on him. They were the same to him...

The caged ones at the cart prompted up gasps from some of the prisoners. Interred inside is the men that were marching to deal with the emission of yesterday. Their failure brought them to the center, each of them, bound to shackles in a kneeling position, heads slumped down. Much like the few that made it to the entrance of the city, their armors were but shadows of what they once were, consumed by scraped parts and leaking purple.

The most proficient of the inhabitants, now reduced to kneeling wrecks, faces shaded in shame and unrestrained remnants of poisoned arousal. As was the very heart of the cart, the most sought-out individual within. Locked in his ruined armor of gild and decorum, he kneels, cradled by the excessively large pen they locked him in. The only vestige of its twisted remnants was the half intact lion that once encased his head in a majestic roar.

The dark matrons come running around the elevated enclosures, a radiant showing of lust and desire taking over. The best 'merchandise' was here, a few dozen highly trained soldiers and their captain. Humans boasting remarkable quality, keen to make the best slaves around. And every one of the many matrons wanted a piece.

"Oh, yes! The main menu is here!" One of them robs her gloves together, swaying hips all the while. Her yellow irises flash persistently at the one in gold. His groaning expression does nothing to dismay her "Oh, don't you worry, slave. You'll soon learn to love your new, proper place".

"Yes...~ Another comes next to her, cooing seductively ~...and I shall be the one to usher you in bountiful servitude. Ohh, how I cannot wait to taste the pleasure of seeing your face twist delightfully from my lash.~

"Hah, no. The gold human will come with me. You can have his lesser subordinates."

"What? You? With him? Do not make me laugh, you barely did anything in this acquiring of stocks."

"Do I, now? Remind me who was the one that went and caught so many of the running slaves exactly. Because I know it wasn't you of all people."

"Oh, I don't know, I didn't really care. I mean, dozens of others like you running after easy prey, that is far from impressive. Anyone with a brief bout of intimidation can go about dragging the mass of defenseless back in hundreds. You try fighting with those 'lesser' men for a chance, see what happens."

"Oh? You mean like your struggle to get one to fall for every twenty I got? Oh, yes, I'm so impressed by your tiny tally--

"Definitively more so than rounding up figurative sheep that falls to the most gentle of lash--

What these two were arguing about, the rest was following. Every one of them wanted the 'golden man' in the middle. Every one of them longed to bag the most worthwhile of people under their heels. Hence, every one of them began arguing for him. Failing that, their arguments went for those surrounding said man.

Their voices raised high, turned into volatile arguments as to 'why' and 'why not'. Some were hot-headed enough to take more threatening stances, ready and willing to feud for the prize that laid at the heart of their captures. Others were still in fervent yelling about the validity of their performance, claiming the first pick.

"Enough! All of you!" One of them stands over the rattling cages of dozens of hands. Her voice is a booming command, one that freezes the bickering dark elves on the spot. Whatever idea they had about feuding with their fellow withers down under her elder authority.

"M-M-Matron..." One of them temptingly speaks as the delegated chief leaps down in a dress sporting a higher elegance. It bears the same pride for her body as the rest of the elves but in a higher count of adornments dancing through the velvet gloves. They go beyond, spreading to the leather boots across the silky leggings, all gold on jet black attire.

"You all bicker with no reason as I already know who is the first to pick her spoils. You are presenting a poor example for the servants around". She stands in a regal manner, blue icy eyes staring down the kneeling elves eager for a name. The elder glare strays away from those in the cages, uninterested in any of them. As she already had someone in her name, there was no need for her to play from a biased hand and save the best for herself. A perfect leader for a raid like this, one with no need for a captive.

They raise their heads, awaiting her words, feeling her frosted and ebony body shifting to each one of them. Every one of them, she observed in their raiding. Their movements, their tally, their haste, their precision. All of it was compiled and presented in her mind with each face mapped.

She walks among the group, looking at every one of them personally...and stops "You".

Her velvet finger points to one among them. At the furthest of the assembly, a peculiar dark elf kneeled, her head, lowered. She was more clothed than the rest, sporting her open jacket mixing leather and ninja fashion. A demonic mask rests by the side of her hips, currently leaning down. One that George was sure to recognize...if he bothered paying attention like the other prisoners.

But, like few others, he was faithless. Cared nothing for whatever might happen at the heart of this frantic change forced on him. Cares nothing for the scenery playing at a distance.

The collective eyes of the rest turn to meet the called out, again, lured to the front by the matron "Yes, you, lilac-haired one. Come".

A placid expression washes over the mentioned's features, prompting a nod "Ohh, of course, matron."

Seamlessly, and without losing eye contact with the mistress, the singled out weaves among her brethren. Her hips sway with a mind of their own, slipping across the mass of envious eyes, paying no heed to them. Not all of them, however.

A very rare few kneel like the rest. Their hair color, their eyes, their disposition are just like her, with a few minor changes to make them stand out from each other. Other lilac-haired elves, more than composed enough to avoid the envy of their white-haired counterparts, watch one of their own like the rest, a quiet expression on their face. Like they weren't quite expecting her ascension to the first right.

As for the woman called out, her eyes are locked at the innards of the polished cage, privy to the mass of torn armors and shredded pride. Mostly the men that still managed a sliver of consciousness un-addled by the poison. These are the people she strongly stares at, seemingly searching for one to pick as she ascends to the matriarch's side.

"I have seen all of my subordinates and their efforts to keep any from slipping away. Either by wrestling the men before us to submission or gathering the mice that ran amok. But, we know such perfect pickings wouldn't have been so easily possible without the chaliced miasma you spewed in support. As was your fellows. Do not worry, they will be next--

"Wait, what?! Unfair!!" The others, they want to seethe. They do not get the chance to vent out.

"Quiet!" Her shout is more than enough to shut them whole, returned to their position with unspent outrage.

"Now, as I was saying, they know that your clan is different from ours. They know this and hoped I would not notice that you and your fellows made the suggestion to hit a place so isolated. Nor did they hope that I would not notice the support from your aromatic chalices wearing down the defenders. It wouldn't be this perfect of a raid without you..."

The matriarch lays a hand over the lone elf's shoulder while gesturing towards the litter of ripe 'pickings' "Therefore, I decree that you get the first pick. Your fellow clan members will follow behind you. Anyone you see here that you want it yours. You need only to ask. Or, take him. I will accept none the less."

She was already looking, already scrutinizing every single one interned in the pen. Those that were oddly less infected by the ambient poison. The men in steel wear and the one in gold. The mana that coats them, deep and incandescent, especially with the man of gild. Ripe to be plucked and tamed as a strong source of 'feeding'. A pride of a gathering...

"No...no...this one...?" And yet, as her eyes line them up, her placid visage only expresses discontentment, even at the heart of the ceil. She abruptly places her hands on the bars in a somewhat hasty manner, garnering the attention of her fellow elves and the prisoner within, again looking. With their surprised, jolted expressions, maybe she could find one that suited her. And the gold one, maybe--

"Ugh, no. Not this one." The purple-haired woman turns away from the cage, walking once again, across her fellows. Away from the steel men and the gilded man, the most prized individual of their conclusive raids.

She walks away to the utter shock of her brethren who's collective eyes have widened. They had a chance at the one in the middle and those who followed him. They had a chance, one that should have ramped their stunned looks into jubilations. Pride to one day, bring the future servant to more of their fellows in a show of force. The envy and jealousy that would spiral in their way played in their mind, making it teem with anticipation.

And yet, it cannot hope to tear down the complete bewilderment that consumes their faces next to the matriarch's more mild questioning "Dear, you seem to have forgotten your prize. You haven't told me yet".

She turns briefly, gesturing to the cage and its prizes dismissively "Oh, they can have them, no worries. There is no one in that cage that suits me".

"Are you certain--

The elder woman's mild confusion is trampled down by one of her other subordinates' more unhinged lack of understanding. She rises from her kneeling stance, unable to fathom the sight "Hey, hey, hey! Where are you going?! You have not picked your choice yet!"

"What?" The lone woman turns just slightly more in their direction. A smug grin on her lips form "You want me to steal your prize? None of you looked particularly happy to hear that I had first picks."

"Well...no, but, you're just walking away with no--none of our kind would be so apt to just reject them! The matron is literally giving the best slave away to you and--

"You act like they're not enough or something! What gives?!" Another one rises, equally as confused, bewildered. The more daring ones voice the same confusion to the lone elf, doing nothing more than to shrug off their bewildered stares.

"That's because they aren't. None of them is enough for me. And, likely not for my fellows either. You can take them." She walks down the middle to the less 'desirables'.  None of the nobles that failed in their fleeing or catching attention in their silk clothes and golden ornaments was in her interest. None of the merchants with their trinkets and profitable riches caught in either.

No, under the breathless stare of the coven she was briefly sought out into, the lone woman wandered deeper towards the furthest cages. The shoe cobbler, the local smith, the mendiant, and the factory worker all belonged here. By far, the least desirable of the lot. Easy to break, easy to tame, low in power, low in riches, low in potency.

"What..." One of the dark elves mouths, unable to believe what she was seeing. The one with the right to the best was currently kneeling in front of one of the most mundane, so far from the potency that one might desire so much. Least of all...

"I want this one." The lone elf, having scrutinized the slumped man at his lonely cage, ignoring the outside, had her mind made. Her fingerless glove points to him, a stern resolution on her visage to a wondering matriarch.

"What?" Another mouthes off, her voice speaking before her brain. She stares in incredulity as the first to pick stops, gazing down at her selected's choice. George could hear them speaking in tones of uncertainty and certainty, questions, and answers. Gripped by curiosity, he dared to lift his head...

...staring down at a silky hand pointing at his cage. At his face. But her face was looking elsewhere. A jolt was appropriate, almost spurred up his feet.

"Are you certain? This one barely looks like he'd give you anything substantial. Nothing like those that you rightly deserve...a-at the central coops?" Even the matron, mostly distant from the pickings, couldn't help but delay slightly, thinking her choice over with a visible inquest on her face.

"Yes, I am. He is perfect." She speaks as her head turns to George's bewildered expression. Hers is a searing conviction: he's perfect.

"What?!" Many's tones slag off in total shock, unable to comprehend the scenery playing before them.

"Very well then. By the decree of the first right, you may take this one." The matriarch steps aside, watching the 'guest' of this coven quietly opening the lock from the front of the cage. Silence hangs in the air, misgiving the wailing of the poison-choked.

"Is...is she really doing this? Picking up worthless trash usually left for the market? After having first picks?" One of the other elves staring down the lone one of their numbers voices out loud, unable to mask the constant unbelievability of the scenery.

"It looks like it. Then again, why are we surprised? This is a Lilac. They like picking the scrawny menials." Another one. A more chiding tone towards the one woman crawling into the cage, a pair of handcuffs and shackles. Her glare matches said tone from watching a supposed brethren deliberately bringing the now cuffed George from his imprisonment. No haste, no pull, no way close to the one that they would go about dragging a worm from his cage.

"Oh, yea. I forgot. Forget the men they have to wrestle down, they prefer the limp ones, the pathetic, even by slaves' standards. Fine by me."

"I'd say. I like total domination with those witless things, but even then, there should be a limit. Not to them, it seems."

"Seems like so if this is what she's going with...it's a real wonder that we're supposedly fellows with how they pick their broken, unsightly toys to chew on."

"Well, it's all the better for us, if that's the case. The savory prices are still here for us. No need to worry about any of them going rowdy with any of us." One of them deigns sneering, louder than she thought. The parting elf and her conquered behind heard her as well as the rest. Their words and tones, all heard from her, who spares no back glance. Just a forward walk and the rattling of shackles from an absent-minded George who already was resigned to his fate. There was a long trek awaiting them both...

Behind her, behind George, the same scenery plays out. Other violet-haired elves granted the right to pick, scorning the ones at the top with disinterest...only to wander near the less gifted, the less lucky, a shimmering glint in their ivory irises.

The scene plays again twice. Thrice. And more. Lilac elves that spring people equally as shunned as George are lured out of their cells, prompted to follow their new owners under chiding words of the white-haired slavers, more than happy to lick their lips at the top prizes. The violet ones' expressions are like George's new mistress: faint contentment...