Log:Resistance: Exaltation 2: Excitation
Continent One - Ylesia
The City of the Temple, as it is known, is home to the Temple of the One and Only. Sheltered on one side by the natural fortress of the foothills of the Exalted Mountains; the jungle encroaches on the small city, a constant war of attrition being fought to keep the vines at bay. The humps and mounds of crumbling ruins of buildings taken over by the vegetation can be seen by anyone intrepid enough to dare walking it.
The Temple, center for the fake religious cult that enslaves sentients to the euphoria produced by male t'landia til, takes up a quarter of the city with a wide space around it to isolate the inhabitants from the sound of ceremonies. The ceremonies take place in a white domed building built for intensifying the acoustics of the male t'landia til around which the enthralled worshippers stand to be enticed and then enslaved to the pleasure produced by the males. The sound the males produce to seduce new mates is intoxicating to most sentients.
The Auction House and Slave quarters abut the Temple, naturally. None of the white marble and columns of the temple. It is a stolid brick building of the local mud, large double doors leading into the lobby where alcohol and local delicacies are sold to the bidders. Bidders go through another set of large double doors which open onto an amphitheater centering on the block where the slaves enthralled by the Exaltation are brought to market. A large holding pen is adjacent to the stage which serves as the block, sound proofed to keep control of the slaves and to protect the tender sensibilities of the slave owners.
The seats, arranged in a semi-circle are filling for the upcoming auction. There is the hum of voices as bidders settle in, reading the program, for all the world like the beginning of an opera or a play. They hold the power on this planet. Their exotic perfumes vie with the loud silks and brocades of the rich competing with one another in their displays of wealth.
IN THE SLAVE PEN: Lester is bored filling in for the regular male who does slave duty. He likes the thrill of the hunt! His thick tree trunk legs folded under him, he drums his long claw like fingers, cracking them on occasion and yawns. A cavernous yawn that splits the permanent sneering grin on his face, the one feature that his kind share with Hutt. A slave moves and he tracks him with his tiny eyes, a whip like arm snakes up to his long horned appendage to stroke it in a soothing motion. In a fight it can be deadly and the males are inordinately proud of their length.
He watches two in particular. He helped capture them and they have been a source of trouble ever since.
In the holding area, the slave handlers have their temporary charges dressed and waiting to be addressed by the auctioneer. A near-human woman with large primary eyes, and a second set of smaller eyes just below the temples. Fair hair done up in elaborate looping braids, studded with semi precious stones, and richly attired in burgundy silks, she regards and speaks about the various prisoners, rather than *to* them. "This batch first. Then those three, one at a time. Cover up that one's bruise, it makes him look dull." Then she and her entourage reach the pair of Resistance pilots. "These two last." Then, she addresses the slaves. "All of you will be sold, today. Play your parts well and you'll be sold for a high price to a wealthy buyer who will give a relatively comfortable life. Indulge any stupidity, and you'll be dead in a spice mine inside the month." She has a rather musical speaking voice, no doubt some voice training in her past.
Her doubly focused stare goes between Callax and Kare, settling on the latter. "You've been advertised as Brigadier General Ambrosia Greystorm, congratulations on your promotion," she notes deadpan. Callax is eyed with a faint double narrowing of her stare.
"Even with the black hair he'll look wrong. Do we have time to give him curls?"
Among those arriving to purchase slaves is a Dashade. Black skin, reddish eyed, and with a gaping mouth filled with concentric rings of teeth. Riding upon a palanquin of slave-men, and cushioned on various slave women comes Bus'Vah, one of his slave ladies made to sit up so that he can lean back against her, sipping from a wine flute, and casually plucking a hopping creature from a bowel nestled onthe belly of another.
"Wonderful, even with the heat! Oh absolutely beautiful! I hope there are some strong ones, or at least some pretties to pamper me... mmmmyesssmmm..." the lamprey faced sentient calls aloud, arms splaying wide. "Ohhhh! Ohhh! Tell me they have some human women!" the reprobate sits up a bit "I need new cushioning! I want them ample!"
"YOU GETTING SOOOLLLD, HWAHAHAHAHEHEHE!" Hisses the small Kowakian Monkey-Lizard who has slid down from its perch to linger near a dais. Goofy steps taken by this creature require it to move on all fours while a spiky tail angles up, swaying carelessly behind its triangular furry face.
It's not exactly easy for the slave-keepers, you know, how to handle Callax: anatomically male, but with a figure cut for a slender and elegant woman, it takes some pinning and fussing (and direction from him, because nobody wants to go to the block a wreck!) to provide him with the rose-colored chiton whose gauzy fabric is draped just enough in places to mask any areas of question. He really does try to be nice, or at least tolerant, because he knows that he'll eventually find a way to escape and make life horrible for these people, likely even before he leaves the planet - but his anger is as all-consuming as the void within his placid shell, and his temper isn't always the best.
Sweetly does Callax look at the four-eyed slaver woman, his teeth white and even. "You'd better hope I never get free, darling," he says in a tone like fresh, warmed latha syrup. "Because if I do, I'm going find you, and those pretty eyes of yours I'll wear for beads." Let them beat him for it; he will return unspoiled. A wink, and Callax turns away, gazing ahead with elegant hands folded behind his back.
The rather overdressed woman who speaks to them has Kare gritting her teeth - Ambrosia Greystorm really! She has nothin to really say but glance at the now black haired Callax. Bare feet brush the floor as she glances down for the hundredth time at what she wears which in her mind is quite literally nothing at all. The heavy belt dips in a low v with several veils of fabric hanging and then swagging around her hips. She rolls her shoulders and clears her throat as she tries to reach up and adjust the tube top like covering that twists then up around her neck and has heavier pieces of meta scalloped like a collar. Nothing to be done for her already short chopped hair that has been given some life with a sweep up.
Dark eyes flit to Callax as he talks, "Don't interact, not worth it." She grimaces and then glares aside at the other groupings which does nothing to make her look any less threatening. "This," he makes a motion to her blue hued outfit with bronze metal work, "if it ever leave the confines of this moment and we are freed, I will know who to blame." As she shifts the blues shimmer to greens and teals.
A bell chimes three sonorous tones announcing the end of their lives as these newly enslaved have known it. It chimes three more times in the hall signaling the bidders to silence. A man appears on the stage dressed in severe, tight fitting black that emphasizes his height and stilt-like legs.
"In the Name of the One and Only, ladies and gentlemen, the auction will now begin."
"Yes, terrifying. Until then be a dear and fetch a good price, hmm?" the auctioneer returns to Callax, managing to sound both droll and sardonic. "How many threats of vengeance does that make this season?" she asks one attendant. "Three hundred and seven already? I suppose I've stopped noticing." On her way out, she advises Kare, "The handlers may tell you to smile more, but don't listen. The angry stare works better for you." The richly dressed auctioneer looks only slightly older than the Resistance pilot-turned-Brigadier up close as she sweeps past to address the crowd.
Gentlefolk of surpassing wealth and discerning judgement, be welcome one and all to this season's finest auction to date. Peace and Prosperity be upon you all.." An elaborate blessing is drawn in the air with a flourished hand. "Today's first lot is a diverse opportunity for the largest of estate holders.." The first group of ten slaves are prodded forward to walk onto the stage.
Bus'Vah claps his hands together, a long conical tongue snaking out to lick his lips as he hands off his wine flute to one of his carrier boys and then he is laying back on the chest of one of his cushion girls.
"OOOOOOooooo! Look at that lot... Mmmmmmm." the dashade's hands rub together as a line of drool runs between pointed teeth.
Callax and Kare are not the only slaves in the area. Another has been seated in his cage, bindings and all, staring daggers into a nearby wall until finally the Kowakian Monkey-Lizard's laugh made him break. "SHUT UP, YOU!" He yelled at the Monkey Lizard, lunging toward the bars in an attempt to reach and strangle the creature's neck. Hope was fleeting, yet this slave seemed defiant in it all. Coop was the name of this slave, and he did not look the part very well. He had a boyish face, handsome with wild hair of yellow and bright blue eyes. His athletic build accentuated his youth, and he had a habit of letting his expressions to his talking. In a feral display of discontent, Coop shakes the bars to his pin, growling.
But the slaver has already been forgotten, and Kare's words are on his mind now. "Oh la, don't blame me for your being beautiful, darling," Callax breezes, looking ahead. "But if you insist, I'll keep the obvious a secret." His smile returns, just as nasty-sweet as it was a moment before. "And of course it's worth it. I've been around slave blocks all my youth, Lieutenant. It's resistance they hate, even behind those bitchy smiles of theirs. It's what they fear: for the slaves to slip their chains and kill all the masters. Best to give it to them to the last, even if it kills you. And I, though you have not seen it yet, am /particularly/ hard to kill."
"It may be what they fear but continually reminding them that you could puts them on high alert. False sense of security," Kare remarks and then turns her head to Coop who is thrashing about in his cage. "Like that. They are not going to let their guard down round him. Just play the part for now, as much as I hate to say it," she rumbles lowly. Shimmering blue and green fabric brushes her leg as dark eyes observe Coop. "Getting anywhere?" She asks of him and then turns her head to look at Callax, "But you can be killed. We all can," she points out, tilting her head as she steps up a moment and lowers her voice. "We got any chance it will be after we are purchased. Too many people here, too many eyes. We work towards getting free after the auction when our odds are better." She frowns at the idea but seeks confirmation with a glance to her compatriot.
So the Auction begins. Another day in the life of the spice cycle on verdant Ylesia, home of the Besadi Hutt.
The T'landia til cracks another yawn, he is the one prodding the first group of ten out. Lester doesn't hesitate to use his horn, so nice and polished, so sharp. He huffs which fills that special chamber inside of him with air. Not singing. Not yet. But he likes to make the stupid slaves get sappy eyed and follow him with love in their eyes. Almost as good as mating season, almost. A growl for the one that is throwing himself against the bars and then back to work with some delicate prods for the ones going out on stage.
The optically endowed auctioneer conducts bidding for the first lot of ten- aliens, all- coaxing bids higher, but not pushing too hard just yet. The first lot is never the one buyers break the bank to acquire.
In the holding area, one of the handlers is walking up and down the rows, idly rapping a stun baton on Coop's coop, with the almost bored instruction to, "Shut up." The guard keeps walking toward the end of the row, passing out of earshot before turning back around. Polite applause from the main hall indicates the night's first sale. The senior slave handler orders, "Second lot up! Bring the Sullustans." A pair of the gray skinned aliens are shoved toward the doorway onto the stage.
"OHHH! Sullustans! I love their foot massages!" he taps a button on his belt, causing one of the slaves in his palanquin to cry out, "Win those! Bid until you hit the budget line!" mmmmm... Sullustan face foot massages, Bus'Vah shivers at the very idea, laying back over the bosoms of his cushion slave, one arm thrown across his eyes, toe wriggling in erotic delight,"MMMMMmmMMMMmmmmmm, it's been sooooo loooooooonnnng!"
Back inside for the gray ones. They smell particularly bad and he wants to draw blood but he daren't. Still, he wants to see it bleed just a little. Lester drools a bit dreaming of it.
Coop jumps back a bit, avoiding the blatant shock of the stun baton. He spits at the guard and uses his hand to make an obscene gesture. Coop moves away from the bars though and turns to look at Kare who addresses him. Young, boyish eyes search her's a moment, then he spouts something off in Mando'a and frowning. After a moment, he translates, his tone dark and full of hate. "Not. Yet."
"I see, I see." Callax smiles in his model-perfect way, leaning in to rest his head against Kare's, seemingly in a gesture of comfort, long now-black hair falling over his face. So tender.
He murmurs, ever so softly. "So if I were to have undone my binders, would that be a bad thing?"
Meeting Coop's gaze Kare is quiet for a moment and then merely /nods/ at him and shrugs. They are all in the same boat really - bound to places they don't wish to be. When Callax gets near her and uses his hair as a sort of shield for their conversation she listen, her gaze dropping then to stare at him, unresponsive at first.
"Not a bad thing if you can get mine undone," Kare remarks and glances quickly back at Coop. "This may not be the best time. If we are bought...we could use the binders at that point to get free, what do you say? We get caught here and it is over." She glances around though, thinking bout their odds. "We are vastly outnumbered." Kare is actually trying to think this through instead of move on instinct.
The Auction moves forward on the greased wheels of greed. The polished patter of the auctioneer seduces the audience into buying. Her voice almost on par with the seduction of the t'landia til.
Back inside, Lester ponderously moves between the groups, eyes for the restless boy in the cage and for the two he helped capture. The ones responsible for that human slavers death. His little eyes narrow to slits. Bah! If they get any more rambunctious he will raise his horn in a signal to the auctioneer. They will need to close the doors to the soundproof room for a moment so that he can do his magic. Lester will croon them into submission.
On she speaks: "And now, we begin what is so often the most anticipated of slave races: my most prosperous and elegant masters, to begin the Human portion of our auction, I present for your tastes a youth of rare and royal bloodline, of warrior stock suitable for arena, for breeding, or simply as a living ornament for your throne rooms; the last descendant of Mandalore the Lesser, Bacoup Las'ti ." The handlers unlock Coop's cage, ordering him toward the door with a gesture.
Bus'Vah raises both hands, "Bid! Bid! Bid away! Ooo I must have!" shifting around 'seductively' in his seat of women. "Oh oiled and flexing all the time!" the Dashade begins rubbing at its chest, making mewling sound while his bidding slaves go to work.
A puttering sound, think of a card in the spokes of a child's push speeder, starts quietly. A deeper sound joins the rapid tic tic tic that soon is so fast that it is a a high pitched keen with a basso thrum that hits the chest, expands, fills a body, relaxes it. Warm. Peaceful. Warmer. Like being lapped in water, in kisses, in the arms of the ones that you love. Lester croooooooons.
The restless Mandalorian in the other cage is somehow calmed, and even though he looked dangerous when they opened his cage, he walked out as commanded, his steps taken peacefully. Slowly the youth steps out, blinded by the lights turned to him yet the patrons could see in great clarity. He was everything the announcer said and more.
"Always outnumbered, darling," says Callax in his frou-frou way. "Never outgu...nn...e...d." Frou-frou becomes dreamy, and then hazy in the extreme - regardless of his spirit, the t'landa Til's power simply wins out. He smiles, a living statue, vacant and beautiful. Compliant. As his parents wanted him.
He's going to kill a lot of people someday, you know. There will probably be fires.
Not this again..no! Kare once more fights the will from the song that fills the air. She presses her lips into a straight line and watches as Callax succumbs to the song and the scrappy, slave outfit wearing pilot reaches out to nudge him with her shoulder. "Hey! Stay with me...Princess..." she growls even as her head gets a little swimmy and Coop also seems to give in. She really is outnumbered now and no chance of them fighting back if Callax remains dopey.
"Kriff," she hisses and then goes still, watching what is going to happen next as she leans into Callax. "Princess, snap out of it, yeah? Gotta think about what you hate the most." Somehow. she still has her wits about her and those dark eyes glint with ill intent. Alone. For the moment Kare stands alone and manacled.
Practice makes perfect. Restlessness can be dealt with by blows or by the t'landia til. The t'landia til only bruises the soul. But no slave owner cares for the souls of his chattel. The climax of the auction arrives.
It always does it to him. The song. Lester loves it. And after he has kept all of these low life slaves in his thrall, he is going to find himself a female and sing her into submission. It will be so good. He thrums for the slaves so that they arrive on stage loopy with the drug of their own hormones aided by a little Lester.
Coop is sold, but not to the creepy slaver. A quiet woman near the back wearing a cowl so only her shaded, dark eyes are shown. The fight comes back to Coop briefly, but his chance at freedom is dashed with the buttstock of a weapon connects with his face. The Mandalorian is drug away, his youthful frame limp and blood trickling from the side of his face.
The fair auctioneer lets Coop's time in the spotlight draw out, as she drives the interest higher. She recites details of his ancestors and lineage that will hold up to any cursory holonet resesrch. She's a professional, and much homework has been done to build the grandeur of the prize, before allowing the bidding to close, and the ultimate prizes to be brought out.
"And now.. bathed in the prosperous warmth of fortune, allow your humble servant to present you all with such prizes are sought by the most powerful souls in the galaxy: the Supreme Leader himself has sought these, yet only you fortunate few shall have the rare opportunity to bid on the unconquerable spirit of Hunanity itself: the ten-fold Ace Captain Fulmar Darrow of the Legendary Rogue Squadron.. And the infamous Brigadier General whose defense of Mon Calamari against the First Order destroyed even a Dark Jedi.. The fair and ferocious Ambrosia Greystorm." Somehow the buyers never complain that a slave is too young and pretty to match their identity. "What price is too high for two such heroes of the fabled Resistance? Bidding will begin.. at one million credits."
Coop is sold, but not to the creepy slaver. A quiet woman near the back wearing a cowl so only her shaded, dark eyes are shown. The fight comes back to Coop briefly, but his chance at freedom is dashed with the buttstock of a weapon connects with his face. The Mandalorian is drug away, his youthful frame limp and blood trickling from the side of his face. Bus'Vah personally bids now, hands in the air, "Two hundred and fifty thousand credits!" the Dashade writhes on his bed of ladies and men whom have all collapsed in a writhing pile at the sounds of the T'landa Til.
He is covered in hands, legs, and mouths caressing his too smooth skin, "MMmmmmnyeesss! I must have them! I must have them for my pleasure piles!" Bus'Vah runs his hands back across his cheeks and scalp, pushing away the scarves from his fleshy form. "OOoooYYESSSS!"
Stepping up onto the block, expression frozen in bliss, Callax stands beside Kare - magnificent, really, thanks to Arkanian genetic engineering and a slaver's cosmeticians. He stands there, arms behind his back as if in preparation for offering. He looks to the crowd, beaming, and then to his superior officer, face still awash in empty pleasure.
Lester gets a full on glare for his attempt to calm them and she lifts her chin, being pressed out onto stage before the many eyes that are looking at them as commodities. Oh how Callax suddenly looks so proud and eve winks?! Kare is positively scowling by now, straining a moment against her binders she lets out a vexed sound and finally notices the Hutt on his living settee of ...bodies. She feels her stomach drop immediately and she lowers her head, "Hutt to your five," she says and feels her stink being to crawl.
She can still see Coop being drug off all unconscious and somewhat bloody. Another day, another cred for the Besadi Masters. The Spice Lords spend lives with the abandon of the self-involved, sociopaths look like missionary do-gooders next to them. Another draft of slaves goes as fodder to feed the wheels of addiction and spice.
Lester drools slightly thinking of what he will do next. He strokes his horn with crooked little fingers and sings to himself.
The visually gifted auctioneer (whose attire seems rather muted in comparison to the room of ostentatious buyers) gestures in turn to acknowledge each ascending bid, prompting with musical elegance, "This may be the last time such prizes are *ever* available, my masters.. I pray you, do not hesitate in your bids now, lest so peerless a prize escape you." Higher and higher. "Going once. Twice. Thrice, and the final bid is accepted," she declares, gesturing for the chime to be sounded with a bow of her head.
Licking at his thick fingers and then smoothing down over his skin, Bus'Vah watches the slaves moving as he writhes in his pile of fun. "Oh I just can't wait, I need to put Greystorm over here for my pillow, mmmmnyessssss." he then bounces up and gives a childish squeel before bapping at a pair of hands,
"Not right now Noa... you can join in with the ladies when we're on the pleasure yaht again!" he throws a little frog thing at the head of his bidding slave. "Keep bidding! You know the budget, stupid little bony hand thing!" Bus'Vah leans back and lets himself be enveloped in a sea of arms, legs, soft spots, and hard-work toned bodies.
"OOoo! Yes! Someone has been studying the nibble guides! OOOooo-hoo-hoo-hooo" and mouths... Ugh he's the worst.
And so there he is, dear, glorious Callax, smiling to the bones - and all the while, he murmurs softly to the Lieutenant next to him. "My hands are free," he tells her softly, "And my mind is clear. Just wait until we get a moment out of the sight of that thing and we can act. I promise you, Lieutenant, there will be blood tonight."
The emaciated man in black returns. "Sold to Bus'vah! If I can ask the purchasers to come to the front of the stage so we can arrange transportation. That will close today's proceedings. Thank you for coming. Enjoy your merchandise in good health and profit. Good sirs, kind ladies, benefactors all. Thank you.
Grimacing at the Hutt, Kare does not look at Callax but rather speaks faintly, "Promise me it will not be your blood," She is not free by the sound of it. her gaze narrowing a moment as she tests the binders that still hold her tight. The fluctuating looks of her slave outfit shimmers from blue to green and back again. She does finally look up at the black haired pilot beside her, offering him a nod. "I understand. I will do what I can." with her hands tied - she will still try to lay down some pain.