Bound and muzzled, the defiant young witch was trotted across the sands of the Burning Coast.
The caravan likely thought of her as quite the catch -- amber-gold skin, sable hair, and eyes like dark ripened plums. They must have found her through sheer luck as she slept. Before she even knew what had happened, she awoke to find herself gagged, leashed, and bound -- forced to stumble along like some prized mare. Her buttocks still stung from their rough slaps; her ears from their laughter and scorn.
An experienced witch would have ensorcelled the lot of them. Turned them into pigs and sold them off to a butcher. Desa's cheeks burned at the thought. She would have liked that.
Instead, she was gagged, her arms bound behind her in a sheath so tight that it pulled her shoulders back and together. It drew her like a tightly wound bow; her breasts were thrust up and forward, her nipples exposed. Each was as dark as an olive and as hard as a peach's pit. The only regard for her 'modesty' was a scrap of linen around her hips, held in place by a few delicate threads. With each step, she feared the garment would snap.
A dozen or so other women trotted in a line before her. All were leashed together -- bound in the same way. They ranged from tall to short, slender to wide.
Desa bristled under her bindings. Had they not gagged me, I could easily escape! The men had no idea she was a sorceress. Their decision to gag her immediately had deprived her of a chance to demonstrate. But she only needed to wait for her opportunity -- when they provided her with food and water, perhaps. She had an assortment of spells in mind.
Desa only wished she had learned the one that turned men into swine.
SMK!
The impact of that rough hand against her scantily-clad derriere distracted her from her thoughts. She squealed under her gag, rushing forward, her backside swaying -- one cheek left with a scarlet palm print. The man at her back laughed.
Perhaps,
she thought,
someone has beaten me to it.
It was not long before the ocean-side road led them to the marble spires of Iska. The sight of the City of Coin filled Desa with gnawing despair. She had hoped the men would make camp before reaching it, thus giving her the opportunity she needed. But they were already approaching its tall, intimidating walls. She would have to suffer whatever indignities awaited her in the markets before she made her move.
Men clad in banded mail and armed with spears stood at the gates. They greeted the caravan, then surveyed the line of captives under the guise of checking for diseases and lice. Desa squirmed under the approving eye of one guard -- his hand drifted to her breast, cradling it in the meat of his palm. He squeezed it, feeling her quickening heartbeat. Then, he rolled her nipple between his thumb and index finger. She suppressed a whimper.
Cowards.
They were brought into the city. With every step, Desa felt eyes upon her -- tracing the lines of her body, the curve of her breasts -- the spasms in her supple thighs and calves, up to the rounded peach of her buttocks. She was unaccustomed to being observed like this -- objectified. The thought left her dizzy and shivering.
Focus. When they remove your gag, you can cast an illusion -- escape in the chaos.
She closed her dark eyes for just a moment. Yes. She would escape, and -- if she could -- get as many of the others out with her.
She opened her eyes. Ahead was the market square, where many captives were already being processed. A stone slab at the center served as the main auction block, but informal purchases happened all along the booths surrounding it. Blacksmiths forged collars and bindings on the spot; jewelers and artists offered to customize one's purchase. Deeper in, one could find more twisted services. Desa suppressed another shiver.
The leader of the caravan was speaking to a large, portly gentleman surrounded by several 'mares'. The women were bound like Desa, but more thoroughly -- it was clear these bindings were not intended to be removed. Their arms were pulled behind them in tight sleeves of black leather, left to weaken with disuse. Their upper faces were masked in hoods, leaving only their mouths exposed -- clamped tightly down on bits. Their bodies were mostly bare, with straps running under and between their breasts and over their hips, providing multiple connection points to buckle on a load. Their legs were thick and strong, their bodies having been shaped through rigid exercise and control. Great care was taken to preserve their appearance, their 'aesthetic'.
But what made Desa's blood run cold was what she saw upon their buttocks. On the left cheek, each bore a brand -- a mark of ownership. And woven into that mark was something she recognized. A sigil that stripped the bearer of all magic.
No -- no, no, no --
The caravan leader was shaking hands with the owner of the mares. They were laughing as the leader gestured toward Desa and the line of women. Already, one of the men pulled on the woman at the front, guiding her toward one of the booths.
Desa's feet shifted. She tried to push back. Some of the other women fought, too -- but then, the men struck them across their buttocks and breasts, pushing them along. Almost as if by instinct, the women moved as one. Like a herd. Desa was pulled along.
