"Sweet Juniper!"

The voice, when it came, was a surprise, and the sudden voice from beyond the drapes (for the little buckskin had yet to see its owner) startled her so badly that she stumbled into the column beside which she had been hiding. The stone had been worn smooth by time, and her still-damp golden pelt slid seamlessly along until her rump encountered the soaking drapery, at which point she squealed and scurried toward the far side of the rotunda. She had long since discovered that the best thing to do when a slave drew unwanted attention was to disappear, at least for the time being, for the slave that drew attention generally drew wrath as well. Better for her health and her owner's image if she simply took herself elsewhere. The punishment was less likely to be severe.

The voice, though, stopped her, and as she paused at the far entryway, she wondered what kind of male she had run into. He didn't address her properly at all, particularly given her station; nevertheless, he seemed to be addressing her, and so she was required to remain. Unless, of course, he had a companion whom she had not formerly seen. Taking a deep breath, the little slave girl turned her head to the side, careful to keep her posture submissive and her eyes downcast. Her ears fell loosely to the back of her head, which she held in a lowered, cringing position, as though expecting a blow at any moment. Unfortunately, the newcomer did not seem to have a companion, and so he must have been talking to her.

She turned around.

Her posture did not change, though it took a great deal of effort not to look him over. A vague curiosity had blossomed in her mind, and though it was the merest shadow, it made her want to see what kind of odd stallion would address her as - as an equal. He bumbled on, his voice mild and apologetic. He was clearly mistaking her for someone else, or perhaps he was simply a lonely old hermit with no way of knowing how the real world worked. In any case, his friendly tones left the poor buckskin pony more confused than ever. She suddenly realized that he had stopped speaking and seemed to be looking at her expectantly. Only her slave training saved her, for she had half-stopped listening to him in order to hide her bewilderment.

"This one is called Kaiylia," she told him, her voice soft and mild. She did not have a name, not in the sense that he did; she had been known by a number until her first purchase, and with a name engraved on her slave bracelet, it had always seemed prudent to her later masters to call her the same thing. Of course, some has insisted on renaming her, but as they had never figured out how to remove her bangle, the calling had remained hers even after they gave her up. And they always gave her up. "This one cannot share a shelter with you, Sir. It would be improper." Her bi-colored gaze remained firmly on the ground, though her voice shook slightly with the effort of defying a male. It just wasn't something that one was supposed to do. "This one shall stand under the trees until you are ready to move on, if it please the good Sir."

"Talking"

@[Wilibald]

Kaiylia