marlowemuses | If you were Dracula, I'd be letting you take that bite

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If you were Dracula, I'd be letting you take that bite

Lenore's immediately curious about their 'guest' in the dungeons from what Striga had to say: a swordswoman of exceptional skill, the most satisfying fight Striga had enjoyed in years and she only regretted that the woman was so tired out already before Striga got to her, if she'd been fresher in the fight and had vampiric advantages, she would have been a 'true opponent'.

The soldiers who had survived the battle spoke of it like something out of legend, to the point that Lenore almost had to roll her eyes at the way the story was already getting embroidered and exaggerated. (She thought it very unlikely that their captive was eight feet tall with eyes of flame.) There was little useful information from any of them--run down castle practically in ruins, aging retainers, decrepit king and queen, none of them even healthy enough to save for feeding purposes. Morana had plenty to say about that, the waste of losing forty-seven good soldiers for the gain of an ugly, crumbling castle in an ugly, barren land and if she'd known it was going to be this much bother they would have just gone around. Carmilla had already expressed her opinion in the original conversation, and the entirety of that opinion was a disgusted scoff.

Thus armed with as much information as she was going to get, Lenore dressed herself elegantly and went to the kitchens to collect a basket of freshly baked spice cakes, temptingly aromatic, before she descended to the dungeon.

Only one of the cells was filled at this time--none of the sisters were especially inclined toward taking prisoners unless they were of political value in some way, and their food captives were kept elsewhere under relatively minimal restraint.

"Well," Lenore comments, stopping in front of the dungeon cell and looking over the captive within with interest, chained on her knees. A heavy collar around her throat was chained to a ring in the floor in front of her, while her wrists were pulled out to either side and secured to more heavy iron rings and the cuffs on her ankles were attached to a ball and chain. "I don't think I've ever seen anyone in quite that many chains."

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"Well, you still give me sweet fuck entertainment," Lenore points out, amused. "You just do so while we're both more comfortable and you're not stinking and caked in filth."

Rising to her feet, she sets down the basket and takes a single one of the spice cakes out of it. "I'm going to bring you one of these cakes, and you're going to think about how much you'd like to bite me," she says, taking a key from her pocket--she collected it on the way in, no need to call a guard to bring it over the way she'd done for the water and the chair. "And you're also going to think about how if you try to bite me, I'm going to strike you hard across the face, and then you'll have the taste of blood in your mouth and the ache of hunger in your belly." She unlocks the cage door and then returns the key to her pocket, standing in the doorway for a moment as she continues her little speech. "And you're also, also going to think about how if you don't try to bite me, you'll get to eat this cake. It's very good."

By way of demonstrating that it is very good, and that it isn't drugged, and that there's risk of it being taken away, Lenore tears off a bite of it and places it in her mouth. Chews. Licks honeyed crumbs from her fingertips.

Then she steps forward, calm and confident, and holds out the cake for Gideon to take a bite. She calculates her positioning carefully, so that Gideon will have to strain forward in order to reach the cake, which will minimize her ability to try biting.

She wants to do it. Wants to wait until the last possible moment before she rips this bitch's finger off. It'd take some work, with Lenore poised as far from her as she's able to be whilst keeping the cake in reach, but could she do it? Maybe. At the very least she could take a bite of the pastry, chew it up and spit it right back in her captor's face. It might earn her a backhand to the mouth, another bright flare of pain to add to the myriad she's currently feeling, but would it be worth it just to see Lenore's composure crack apart, just a bit?

But having watched the slide of Lenore's tongue against her fingertips, having the scent of something warm and good held so close to her face after fuck only knows how long since she last ate-- the vicious twist of hunger slices through her insides again. It comes so hard and fierce that she has to bite back on a moan, uses all of her remaining self-restraint to prevent the sound from passing her lips. Fuck but she's hungry and hurting and tired. So tired she wants to fucking scream.

She doesn't, though. Keeps her gaze fixed hard on Lenore's eyes for another lengthy moment, carefully tests herself against the restraints she knows aren't going to give. She could take her brief moment of satisfaction, or she can play the long game. Give herself a real chance of slaying every last one of these fuckers and burning the place to the ground.

It’s not like she has a whole lot of dignity left to hold on to.

"Fuck you," she says, but this time it sounds like the husky whisper of defeat. She finally lets her gaze drop low as she takes a ravenous bite of the cake, hating herself all the while.

Lenore restrains herself from commentary while Nightie bites and chews, not wanting to crack the already dangerously tentative ceasefire. She turns the cake to offer the next side of it so that her fingertips can still stay relatively safe, and then lets go on the third bite, letting her figure out how to get the whole remaining chunk into her mouth and chewed. "Good girl," Lenore murmurs, once her hands are safely out of the biting zone. She turns and goes back to the basket by the chair and takes out a wooden thermos, cleverly carved with a cap that screws off, the inside of it lined with copper.

Bringing back the open thermos, Lenore holds it for a moment so that the smell of it wafts out. Hot tea with a splash of lemon and a drizzle of honey, some brandy to add to the warmth and richness of it. It smells of herbs and spices, but it's brewed thin so that the honey and brandy can shine, and because the real purpose of this is to get their captive hydrated a bit but also to make it irresistible and luxurious, to teach her that nice things come with cooperation. "Open up."

Lenore holds the thermos out, keeping hold of the base of it so that her fingers remain out of reach while she tips it toward Nightie's mouth.

The taste of the cake is so pure and good that for one dreamy moment nothing else matters. The clinging dregs of her self-disgust are abruptly banished to the far margins of herself, because it feels like a fucking age since she last ate, and it was nothing as good as this. Maybe it's purely because she's hurt and half-starved that it seems as blissful as it does, more maybe it's the cheap, plain food she'd been given all her life up until now. It’s irrelevant; for a moment she just gives in to it, allows herself to be handfed like some fucking dog as her body pushes her to act on instinct and self-preservation alone. It's so good she could fucking cry (though she doesn't, a fact she'll be glad of later), and even Lenore's condescending good girl can't touch her at the moment.

It's good, but not enough-- just enough to dull the sharpest edges of her hunger. Enough that when she smells the tantalising contents of the flask that she knows she's going to do as she's told and drink it regardless of the consequences. If it's poisoned then fuck it all to hell; it's not the worst way one could go.

Her lips part as requested, and when the liquid within hits her tongue she could swear it's ambrosia of the Gods. It soothes the dry, thick feeling in her throat, and it's all she can do to prevent herself moaning in aching relief.

Lenore gives her new pet plenty of pauses to swallow and breathe, but she pours the whole of the thermos down her throat, making sure that she gets all the hydration, nutrition, and soothing that the tea has to offer.

"There you are," Lenore says with a smile, warm and approving. "Feeling a little less savage now?"

She returns to the door and locks it again, taking a seat once more in her chair on the far side and folding her hands in her lap. "I know you're still hungry, but since you haven't eaten in days you'll get sick if you eat too much at once. You can have more in a couple hours. I'll come back for that. For now, however, I'll answer your question about what the catch is. What it is that we want, why we're keeping you alive."

Pausing just a moment for effect and to be certain she's secured Nightie's attention, Lenore gestures with an elegant hand. "You're an asset. A masterpiece or whatever. So we want you to be our asset. Simple. Really, the only question is what you want in return."

She rests her elbow on the arm of the chair and props her cheek in that hand, languid and lovely, giving Nightie her full attention.

It galls her just a little to realise she does feel a little less savage. Sure, it's still there in her; the hot spark of her anger and her indignation, of her desire for revenge. It has softened though, it's edges now marginally dulled, even if all this really affords her is more space to perceive her multitude of aches and the nasty smell of her own skin. The hunger that continues to gnaw at her despite what she’s been given.

It also allows space for exhaustion to weigh heavy on her though, perhaps exacerbated by whatever had been in the tea; not poison, and not drugs, but something mildly soporific. Whether the sweetness or the brandy or her own body's long-awaited satiation, it's hard to say. Besides, Queen Bitch is talking again, and – reluctantly – she’s listening.

All throughout the short stretch of her life she's scrabbled and clawed and fought for scraps of recognition. For the meanest slivers of evidence that the kingdom to which she had been indentured could see that she was worth something. She'd hated that cold, near-derelict place right down to her very bones, but hammered just as deep was the desperate drive to be wanted, even if just a little bit. It instils mixed feelings in her now to finally receive those scraps-- but from some enemy territory. Her gold eyes flick upwards to alight on Lenore's face, and she's too close to the edge of herself to remember to be guarded. There's distrust in her expression, and anger, and a sparking kind of bitterness. But there's confusion too. Perhaps the barest flicker of interest.

"Well obviously I'm a fucking asset," her voice comes worn and weary now, but hasn't quite lost its bite, "but why would I wanna be your asset when you just fucked up my people?"

"I know," Lenore says, brow furrowing a tiny bit in empathy. "I'm sorry." She shrugs a little, apologetic but also acknowledging that what's done is done. "I won't bother with excuses. My sisters decided that the place was strategically valuable. We tried negotiation, it was declined." And quite rudely declined. Lenore can see where her pet learned manners.

"So we're here now, you and I. You're hurting, body and heart and pride. And I know it's hard to try and imagine anything else, any other life. I know it must seem easy to die, and Striga denied you that. Continues to deny you that. You'd be dead by now if it were up to Carmilla or Morana."

Rising to her feet, Lenore picks up her basket and hooks it over her arm. "Think about it. What you want. What kind of life you'd like to bargain for. I'll be back in a few hours and we can talk further."

That tiny shred of empathy, the simple words I'm sorry, make something go twang hard and deep in her chest. Maybe its entirely feigned for the benefit of manipulation, but there's something in that sentiment that nonetheless hits Gideon hard. Not that it makes her feel any better; instead she feels dirty and fractionally ashamed. This woman is partly responsible for the eradication of her kingdom, apologising in the aftermath does nothing to change that. It makes all the King and Queen's intimations of her faithlessness ring true; that she'll take validation wherever she can get it, that she does not deserve to be the one who had lived when their perfect little daughter had died.

Priamhark and Pelleamena would never have negotiated; theirs was a dark and bleak and ancient lineage that was to be kept pure no matter the cost, even when that cost had been their slow extinction following the plague. Or their swift one, following the invasion. Perhaps the Queendom's intervention could even be considered a mercy-- but it doesn't stop Gideon from quietly hating herself for her fleeting moment of weakness, for wanting to be comforted, even if it is from one of the harbingers of her Kingdom's doom.

"Yeah, yeah. Get the fuck out of here and leave me alone," she manages, with perfectly feigned - if weary - indifference. Bites down on the desperate plea she can feel rising in the back of her throat for Lenore not to leave her like this, still bound and aching and cold and sodden in her cell. Instead, she'll close her eyes and turn her face away to the extent that she's able; pretend she's in any position to enact a dismissal.

Lenore leaves her for only a couple of hours, during which time she does a little more research, asking more questions about what the invading soldiers saw, who they killed, who they captured. She's genuinely surprised to find that they brought no captives back to the castle. The conquered castle was full of old and withered people, bearing scars from an old plague. Those who had fought had died. A few farmers and servants had been left to their farms, but there were few enough of those.

When she returns, it's with a pair of guards carrying things for her. They set down their burdens just outside the cell, scurrying away skittishly from the bars, but Lenore opens the cell door without fear and carries the items inside, then locks the cell again from the inside, key returning to her pocket.

To one side of the prisoner, Lenore sets down two buckets of water, both steaming, a cloth rag, and a cake of soap--sweet-smelling and studded with rose petals. On the other side she sets down a tray with a bowl of rich stew of meat and vegetables and herbs, a tall mug of water, and a tall mug of cider. Next to the tray, a little bundle of clean clothing. In front of Gideon's left hand, she sets down three keys, to unlock her hands and feet but without any key that unlocks the collar. She then picks up one of those keys and tries it to the lock on her wrist. It doesn't work, so she puts it down and tries the next one.

The lock clicks open, and Lenore gently removes the metal cuff, wondering whether Gideon will immediately try to seize or strike her.

As soon as footsteps approach, Gideon's eyes flicker open from what - at best - can be described as fitful drifting at the borders of consciousness. Every muscle in her body seems to ache inordinately, strain pulled tight around her shoulders, but she still manages to bear her teeth at the skittish guards as they swiftly back away from her. An impotent threat, but she'll seize her small satisfactions where she can find them.

Lenore shows no such signs of fear as she steps into her cell, as she goes so far to lock it again behind her. Gideon arches a brow quite pointedly, but says nothing aloud of the vampire's quiet confidence. For now she stays silent - hard as it is for her to fight back the urge to run her mouth - and watches as Lenore places the various items before her with an obvious deliberateness. Curls of steam rise up from the buckets and let her know there'll be no frigid shock this time, and the smell of the stew has her insides twisting hard in continued, desperate need. It's clear enough what's being said without words here; refrain from violence and she'll be given more of what she so furiously requires.

She does think about it. Considers reaching for the pale and slender stem of Lenore's throat, tries to calculate the likelihood that she'll be swift enough to squeeze, whether she has the strength in her to snap it. Maybe it'd be worth it even if she can only get one good, clean hit in-- but ultimately decides against it. Better to give this a little more time, wait until she has a stronger advantage. So instead, once the cuff is removed she very slowly lowers her arm, rolls her shoulder in its socket. Battles hard to keep her face steely and indifferent even as pain shoots hard through muscles forced into one position for far too long. She just about manages it, aside from a slight tension around the mouth, a brightening of her eyes. Then she fixes her gaze on Lenore's face and waits to see what she'll do next.

Lenore's fingertips brush very briefly over her captive's wrist, noting the raw skin from the unpadded metal cuffs. "I'll bring a salve for that when I come back," she promises, rising to her feet and leaving the other keys where they are, so that Nightie can do her own figuring out which of her chains it unlocks, now that she has one hand free to do so. Lenore doesn't want to be in the cage with all Nightie's limbs free until after she's partaken of the current round of gifts, skin clean and belly full from the (still modest, for now, still enough to leave her hungry) portion of stew, to take down that savagery another notch. "For now, I'll give you some privacy to clean up. Take your time. I'll be back in another few hours."

Letting herself back out through the cage door, Lenore leaves her alone with the hot water and stew. She's aware that two buckets will end up being scant provisions for washing away that level of filth, but it should certainly be enough to deal with the worst of it.

It's a wise move, Gideon has to give her that. Entirely free of her restraints there's no telling whether her temper will hold, whether all she's been subjected to would rip through her and bring them to a bloody end. As it is, Lenore says little this time, pushes no mental buttons, and once she's retreated from Gideon's enclosed space she's swift to set about freeing herself.

Or partially freeing herself, as it transpires. Just three keys for four locks, and when not a one works on the collar chained about her throat she's angry yet unsurprised. It's an abortive kind of anger though, one that swiftly sputters and dies as she focuses instead on the stew, and the water, consuming both with ravenous intensity because fuck it, there's no one watching her now, and her whole body still screams for sustenance. It isn't enough, but it’s also verging on too much; her rate of consumption leaves her nauseous, abruptly wishing she'd taken at least a little more time over it. There's a full ten minutes where she does nothing but sit and breath in big, deep lungfuls of air, trying to settle the sick, reeling feeling.

It passes though, leaves her with enough strength to strip off the filthy rags that were once her clothes and scrub herself as close to clean with the only slightly cooled water as she is able to get. Does she feel good after this? Fuck, no. But she does smell more human than corpse, the scented soap a small delight never before encountered, and she can appreciate that her skin no longer feels itchy and vile with unspeakable grime. The keenest edge of her pain is subtly blunted by the fact she can now stretch her limbs, though her body is still hotly aching from the abuse it has recently endured, and the battle that had come before it. Her wrists and ankles sting where the flesh has been rubbed raw, but now only partially restrained and better fed the worst of her fury turns from a raging fire to subtly glowing coals.

A small amount of the water she saves to slough across the dirty floor, and once freshly clothed, with the cider consumed, she feels something closer to human. Closer to human, but more exhausted than she’s ever been in her entire, short life. Weak and starved as she'd been, injured as she is, these simple acts have taken more out of her than they have any right to. She tries to fight off the riptide drag of it at first, but it's too strong to resist forever; Gideon ends up foetal on the floor, dropping hard into a deep, black sleep.

Lenore leaves her to privacy, and it's true that Lenore isn't watching, though the guard station near the door still has a view into the cell. They glance over occasionally, but it's clear that they're disinterested, only checking for suspicious behavior. So Lenore has some reports that she receives, and she delays her return a little longer when she hears that her pet is seemingly deep asleep. She waits until the last quarter of the night--the first course had been brought just after sunset and the second just a couple of hours later, so Lenore gives her a few more hours to sleep now.

When she returns again, the guards bring another pair of buckets of hot water and Lenore carries another tray of food. That part of the routine repeats, where the guards move away, Lenore unlocks the door and brings the buckets inside, setting them just within her pet's now extended reach. She goes back for the tray and brings that as well, setting it down on the floor. This time, the tray contains a little more food, more substantial. Sausages and mashed potatoes, leafy greens, with a whole pear set beside it. Another mug of water and a smaller mug of hot mulled wine. And, as promised, a little pot of a healing salve for her wrists, herbal but pleasant. "How are you feeling?" Lenore asks, remaining on one knee near the edge of her captive's reach, ready to leap back but still choosing to be within grabbing range.

She's up and sat cross-legged by the time Lenore makes her presence known. Both her face and her posture are composed, trying to convey the chilly dignity of someone who isn't collared and chained in a shitty little cell. The chilly dignity that the Kingdom of Drearburh always so highly prized, and she has therefore had a lifetime to learn how to mimic. It's only slightly marred by the hot glint of her eyes, by something fierce yet sullen lurking around the angles of her jaw. Her gaze flicks between Lenore to her offerings and then back again, restraining herself from snatching the food-- it's not going anywhere. She’s fairly sure of this.

"Who, me?" her tone is sardonic, but no longer completely furious, "Oh yeah, I'm good. Great actually. Not at all like slightly warmed up shit. Seriously, what kind of answer are you expecting from me?"

So she hasn't dropped the attitude...but she makes no sudden or violent move toward her captor either. She could reach her, now. Perhaps she could do some damage before a guard was alerted and they piled in here to beat her raw. Instead, she waits a moment before slowly extending an arm, clearly telegraphic her intent to draw the tray and it’s heavenly-scented contents closer to her.

Lenore gives a shrug, accepting the sharp tone without offense. It's an understandable response. "Better. Clearly." But, yeah, she didn't really expect thanks, she'd mostly been checking in to see if there was any other crucial need that she hadn't thought of yet.

The floor is too gross for Lenore to sit with her pretty gown, so she rises and moves back to the door instead, leaning back against it, posture casual. Not to move out of Nightie's reach, but simply to have a more comfortable conversational stance. "If you need a break from the collar, we can swap back to wrist chains, but for now it will have to be one or the other. I can't trust you enough yet to remove the chains entirely."

She shrugs again, since this is just bare practicality. Lenore may have a few tricks up her sleeve that work in a pinch, but she's no combatant, certainly not one to compare with Striga. Even though she's making fast progress, they still have a lot of groundwork of trust that needs laying. "Have you made any decisions yet about what you'd want in exchange for working for us?"

It doesn't escape her notice; Lenore stands, languid and loose, but Gideon can extrapolate that she'd rather not wallow in filth the way that she has been debased to. Fair one, but in the very same breath it's also a hard fuck you. Her gaze cuts sharply toward her captor's face, but then drops back down to the tray again. She starts eating - more slowly this time, and without her earlier animality. In part to avoid a repeat of the nausea, and in part because this time she's aware she has an audience. An audience with a fancy dress, and a body unlike any she'd ever beheld back in Drearburh. Facts that are beginning to insinuate themselves into her consciousness now the peak of her fury has abated. Fuck her luck, that the first time she ever encounters the kind of woman she's only ever fantasised about, and she's some blood-sucker scum whose family have just lain waste to the closest thing she has to a home.

She keeps her focus on the food, on taking small sips of water, but she is listening. Though it's only when Lenore asks her question that she gives any indication that she's heard her. With a dry snort that might pass for a mirthless laugh, she looks up at her captor again, pausing in her slow, methodical refuelling.

"Good one. Since when were the spoils of war offered anything in return for their servitude?"

"Well ... right now," Lenore points out, lifting her brows a little. "We already went over the part where you're an asset. And as far as I know, you're only an asset with a sword. I'm guessing that you don't know how to farm, or cook, or weave ... If that's so, then your only option is to be a mercenary. We want you to fight, for us, for pay. So we give you a mercenary's room, a mercenary's pay, point you at whatever sword fighting we want fought, repeat."

A reasonable enough offer, and also a hint that the swordswoman could have that life elsewhere, if she wanted it, down the road. Signing on with armies for pay, then moving on to the next battle. Transient, thankless, but still a life that plenty of people chose. A lot of freedom in that, as long as you didn't mind the orders that came with the pay.

"But maybe you're more special than that. A swordmaster. A prodigy. I could use a bodyguard, which would mean you go where I go, eat what I eat, and enjoy the life of the highest rank of servant. I'm offering you the chance to negotiate. So what is it that you want?"

Now this really does give her pause. Sure, she recalls Lenore saying something about negotiations earlier, but during the fever pitch of her anger and pain she'd paid it little mind. Manipulation tactics, tricks to subdue and control her, to make her forget about the hot blade of revenge and become their thrall instead. Which, to be fair, is still partially what's expected here, mercenary or otherwise, but it nonetheless throws her to hear it presented as any kind of choice. In Drearburh they may have called her a bondswoman, but since the moment her mother had died in that God-forsaken place and left her to their tender mercies, it was an unspoken understanding that - despite how they hated her - she was their wares and inventory. Indentured until death.

"You'd pay me," she says, not without a touch of incredulity, for all that her sick and traitorous heart had leapt at the word prodigy.

As for the question, what is it that you want?, it's the first time anyone's ever asked it of her. For all that she's dreamed and yearned and hurt for a different kind of life, this stuns her enough that she isn't sure how to answer. Give her a moment whilst she chews that one over.

"I always thought that bodyguard meant standing around looking bored all day, missing out on any kind of action," she says it more to buy herself space for thought, than anything. Priamhark and Pelleamena's 'bodyguards' had been gnarled and ancient retainers well acquainted with osteoporosis. They'd looked more dead than alive, she'd seen them sleeping on the job more times than she could count. The position doesn't exactly sound glamorous.

"Of course we'd pay you," Lenore says, tone edging toward suggesting that should be obvious and it's a stupid question. "You do work, you get paid. That's how this works."

As to whether or not the job will be boring, she tips her head from side to side in consideration. "I'm a diplomat. That's my role in the sisterhood. So I talk to a lot of people, and you'd be following me around. You'd have a lot of conversations to overhear, but yes, probably not much action unless there's an attack on me or the castle. The purpose of a bodyguard is to discourage any action from happening. If you'd prefer going out on campaigns with Striga, you can do that instead. You'll certainly have plenty of opportunity to spar with Striga even if you choose bodyguard. Keep your skills sharp."

Her captive hadn't offered any suggestion of other qualifications, so Lenore's pretty sure she's right in her guess about the swordswoman's skills being fairly one-note. "Mostly you'd just be a sort of companion to me. I already like your sense of humor, so that helps."

Gideon looks back at her with one brow arched high and hard, a silent retort that suggests Lenore has said something dumb and naive, like she has no idea how the world actually works. That this may be how the world works here is something that's yet to fully dawn on her, still struggling to adjust to the possibility that she really isn't going to be tortured and killed. She almost gives voice to her thoughts - that people rarely left Drearburh alive, that since the death of the Princess and only heir to the throne they'd closed in on themselves and kept outsiders away. Not wanting anyone to discover the full extent of the Kingdom's decay. Only a misplaced sense of loyalty forces her to mutter instead, "sounds like you knew fuck all about the place you just invaded."

Gideon continues eating as Lenore talks, her strained mind working hard, trying to make sense of how the carnage and humiliations of the last few days could have culminated in this. She’s yanked hard out of her thoughts by Lenore's final note, almost chokes on her last bite of pear. Wipes her face with the back of her hand as she raises her eyes to her captor.

"If I'd known you enjoy threats of violence against intimate body parts, I'd have tried a different tactic," she clears her throat, reaches for the spice-scented wine, "And just an FYI, taking a swordswoman as a prisoner of war and then asking her to be your companion is all kinds of crazy. Like, if I'm really a prodigy and an asset - which I'm not denying, by the way, it's totally true - why stick me in a position where I'm not properly utilised? If it's because you've been dreaming of gazing at my biceps all day since the moment you first laid eyes on me, you may as well just come out and say so."

She's already braced to be struck for impertinence, muscles tensed beneath her overlay of nonchalance.

Lenore certainly learns a new piece of information about the place they just invaded--they did not pay their workers, or at least not this one, and she had never been valued or recompensed. Which gave Lenore a whole new set of tools to work with.

"Well, you are kind of cute now that we've cleaned you up," Lenore comments, bending forward at the waist to look closer at her face, head tilted a little with consideration. "And the biceps are very impressive."

Straightening up again, Lenore consider what would be 'properly utilizing' a warrior like this one. "What position would you suggest? I've not gotten the impression that you're any kind of tactician, though perhaps you could learn the skill, so you're not suited for being a general. Grunt soldiers need the ability to fall in line, and I have some doubts as to whether you could learn that skill. From what I heard about the battle, I'm extrapolating that you're best one on one, or in a chaotic melee. In my mind, then, that means you're best shown off in arranged duels and sparring, or in an emergency situation. Which makes me want you by my side all the more. Suppose I go to visit a neighboring and they're bragging about their greatest warrior and I suggest a show of their greatest warrior against mine. And if I am attacked, inside the castle or out visiting, that's likely to be a chaotic emergency situation. Where you'd potentially shine."

She tips her head again, watching her pet with interest to gauge whether she's painted an appealing enough picture or whether she'll be learning about some other abilities that might be on offer.

Being backhanded across the face would have felt familiar, would have given her a perverse sense of satisfaction knowing she'd got under Lenore's skin. Drearburh may have been mouldering into slow ruin, but it had been built on a backbone of cold, hard steel. Having her captor bend delicately at the waist and peer into her upturned face takes her entirely by surprise, and she feels her traitorous cheeks flush hot, momentarily loses her capacity for speech. She's been called a lot of things in her life, cur, and chattel, and repugnant waste of space to name but a few of the least offensive. Cute and impressive, though? Never.

She swiftly lifts the wine to her lips and takes a bigger draught than necessary, a ploy to cover her faltering bravado. Gideon knows how to remain uncowed by violence and even the vilest debasement, but a few minor compliments? Here she finds herself cut adrift. Hard not to be, when she'd considered 'you're not completely worthless' as the dizzying height of praise before her capture.

This turn of events leaves her silent as Lenore lists her potential uses and evident short-comings, and Gideon has to grudgingly admit that she seems to have her number. Her wildest flights of girlhood fancy had involved running off to be a mercenary or some kind of heroic wandering knight, saving buxom beauties from vicious attacks, or perhaps from accidents where they'd lost all their clothing. That she'd swiftly be dismissed for insubordinate behaviour in a regular army was a given, and she'd be the first to admit - under different circumstances - that she does all her best thinking with her biceps. Even during the invasion it wasn’t as though she’d had a plan for defensive action; her body had simply known what to do in that moment. Loathe as she is to say it aloud, the picture the woman before her is currently painting doesn't sound entirely terrible.

"I mean, I guess I can see why you'd need a bodyguard," is how she attempts to recover herself, "when you go around chucking freezing cold water at people and giving them uninspired nicknames."

Her words are imbued with some of her earlier bite, but their edge may have been blunted by the appealing notion of being 'shown off' as a hot chick's greatest warrior.

"Good." Lenore smiles brightly at her, all pleased approval. "Then we'll work toward that. But the first step is that you have to earn enough of my trust for me to believe you. It's only been a few hours, after all. And with the rough start that we've had to our acquaintance, I need to make sure this isn't a ploy."

She reaches out and very gently cups Gideon's cheek, beaming down at her for a moment and then turning away and letting herself back out through the cell door.

"More gifts tomorrow. Sleep well, my best nightmare," Lenore flirts, winking playfully. She's enormously pleased with her progress over the course of just one night, but it's true that she does need a few more days to be able to trust that success enough to let her pet out of the cage. That's all right. She has a plan. She turns to go, then stops and looks back with a smile. "Oh! Do you prefer cards, dice, or chess?"

Gideon would, perhaps, have granted her a few points for that one even if it has come about by turning her insubordinance against her. Would, but it's hard to think entirely clearly when moments before she'd had Lenore's cool and slender hand pressed briefly to her cheek. She ought to be furious. Ought to have bitten her, or caught her by the wrist and caused her harm when given an unguarded chance. Perhaps she is, just a little, but this time more with herself.

Perhaps Drearburh had been cold and hard and unforgiving, perhaps it had forced her into servitude and refused to let her go. But she owes them something. Raising her, loosening the leash enough to allow her to learn the sword. Face still flushed, almost wishing she was still crusted with dried blood in order to better hide it, she comforts herself with the thought that Lenore is partially right. She can't be trusted. She isn't going to let it go. She's just playing the long game, so she can do more than cause minor injury to just one of the invaders whilst she's still collared and caged.

This thought mollifies her somewhat. Enough, at least, to an attempt an answer to a question that is frankly as baffling as the rest of Lenore's behaviour, "Uh, cards? I don't know."

It's not as though anyone from her former Kingdom had taken the time to teach her, but she has seen some of the decaying old guards at the palace playing that one.

Lenore nods once at the answer and then goes. She returns as promised the next evening, with a blanket over one arm and a quartet of guards, one of whom is carrying a tray of food and the others with buckets and ... a broom?

One of them unlocks the cage door, and Lenore strides in, setting down the folded blanket beside her pet and then kneeling on it. "The guards are going to tidy things up a bit and take away the dirty things, but they're still wary of you. I'm going to put the chains back on your wrists while they're in the cell, all right?"

Lenore doubts she has the strength to force her pet's wrists back into the cuffs, and she wants this to be a trust exercise anyway, with her captive allowing the restraint to be put on, choosing to accept Lenore's power and authority over her. In exchange, as usual, for a little more comfort and pleasure.

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