He was certainly very prickly, though not verbally abusive as other Masters had been. As the moments ticked on, and her eyes adjusted to the darkness within the Rotunda, she looked at him surreptitiously from beneath her lowered lashes. To look directly at one's Master was to break the Code; it was proper to keep one's eyes firmly to the ground, head lowered to just above the parallel, the picture of submission. To raise one's cranium or one's eyes was to show defiance and was often the brand of a rebellious slave. In Th'orqui, such individuals were given no mercy. The punishment had been brutal, and it was said that only one in three survived. She had forgotten, if she ever knew, what the exact terms of discipline were, but the fear had remained deeply ingrained all the same.

In any case, her secretive gaze was keen, and she saw a skinny draft, large but with little meat on his bones - the type of steed who could crush her with one hoof, but would likely be bested by a healthier individual of his size. Of course, physical altercations were rarely predictable. One of her Masters had enjoyed betting, and so she had attended several arenas as his pack mule. She had watched, unable to tear her eyes away from the violence, and she had learned that the simplest of circumstances could turn the tides in a fight. Still, she doubted that the old Master would have placed his coin on this steed. He was colored simply enough - a dark bay with four even white socks - though it did little to cover the scars that criss-crossed his dilapidated body. The pair of twisted horns protruding from his skull looked sharp, and of course the floating rock nearby was a concern.

Her analysis over, she lowered her eyes again. There was something not quite right about the stallion, though she couldn't quite put her hoof on it. Never having seen the effects of drugs, she didn't know the signs. Instead, she wondered if he was ill, or dying - if, once again, she was going to attach herself to someone who would leave her alone in the world. How many different Masters was she going to have? The Academy had favored longevity, teaching that to hold only one or two Masters in one's life was more desirable than having many different owners. In this regard, the little slave girl was a disastrous failure. She did not particularly enjoy the feeling.

"Don't move." The demand is authoritative and clear, and the buckskin froze immediately, barely even daring to breath. "As the Master comm- OOF!" The air was knocked from her lungs and, a moment later, she became aware of a dull, throbbing pain in her shoulder. She hadn't looked up, hadn't expected the assault, hadn't been able to brace herself - she leaned slightly to the right, testing the limb; it held. It was bruised, then, and therefore nothing to worry about. Soreness, perhaps (and, by the feel of it, quite a lot of that) but nothing that could deter her from doing her duty. The rock had been fairly dull, for which she was grateful - had it been sharper, she may have sustained a more serious injury.

Her eyes still on the dirt, she offered the proper response: "This one is pleased to have served you." She spoke with a mildly pleasant tone, as was desired from those of her station. She did not spend very much time considering the magically floating rock, for it was not her concern. Magic was not commonplace in her homeland, but it was not unheard of. As for the stallion's violence - it wasn't the first time she had been hit, and she very much doubted that it would be the last.

"Talking"

Kaiylia