Chapter Text
Commorragh was a death sentence. Usually.
There was no such thing as a ‘lucky survivor’, in this twisted city. Those who avoided death often continued their existence in a way that had every conscious, coherent thought begging for an end. The flesh troughs were a more merciful fate than becoming a ‘favorite’ of a Druk’hari, and ‘earning’ an immortal life as moaning furniture.
There’s no escape from this place. Even if there was an escape, Druk’hari eyes and ears miss nothing, and slipping by them unnoticed is impossible.
And yet somehow Xandra has remained invisible to them.
Part of it is due to the circumstances surrounding her ‘arrival’. Shortly after her purchase, her new master fell prey to an assassination, before she could be interrogated. She was left for days in the torture cell while the politics were settled outside the door - largely through screaming and blood splattering, from the sounds of it.
By the time the new owners began taking stock of everything, any remote importance she could have had in the schedule was forgotten. She was released from her chains, and through a translator, was harshly barked at to get her new master’s house in order.
In spite of not having anything to eat or drink for Throne knows how long, she obeyed. She always obeyed. She didn’t gnash her teeth, or cower, or question anything, or even cry whenever a whip was brought down on her back for being too slow. In fact, she gave them…nothing.
From the beginning, when her ship was captured, and she watched her crew either being slaughtered or yanked away into the merciless claws of other Druk’hari in the city, bound for an inevitable fate, Xandra’s heart had retreated further and further into her chest, until only a coldness remained. There was no fear in her heart for her fate, no cruel tool that could be brandished at her that would make her shudder. Even when she watched other humans being torn to pieces, screaming for death while her new masters merely laughed and licked their lips, she felt no rage or disgust.
The only person responsible for her crew falling into this place was her. Just another failure in judgment, a moment of hesitation when she should have been decisive…and yet more people have paid for her weakness. All her life, she’s been given far too much praise and power for her blood, and has been too weak to refuse responsibility she knows she’s not capable of handling.
Commorragh is a fitting hell for such a cowardly failure.
With the loss of her name, and the emotional dead air surrounding her, she fell between the cracks. Every other human in the Druk’hari houses needed to be replenished, while she stayed. Even surrounded by Eldar speech, without her Elucidator, she began to understand how things were run - what would be expected of her. Even the hedonistic Druk’hari, with their impulsive desires, could have a somewhat predictable schedule, and she would be where she was needed. She took care of the lowly tasks so dependably, it only made her blend further into the bloodied walls of the Spire.
She had even begun to learn some of the Eldar speech constantly surrounding her. ‘Mess’, she thinks. ‘Blood’ and ‘clean’, for certain. ‘Drink’ or perhaps wine…whether she brought the wrong thing or not was often hard to tell, because if they were whipping her in the face for making a mistake or just because she was a human in front of them was anyone’s guess.
Not even she, after all, could expect a pain free life in a Druk’hari Spire. Simply being within the eyesight of one would be enough to expect torture - though it was usually the guests. She was such a regular presence that the residents of this house found her boring, and much preferred the fresh, screaming playthings that had been brought in and would sate them much more easily. Still, an idle, passing kick to her belly with a bladed boot while she scrubbed floors, or a knife in her back for daring to be slightly in their way…all expected. She recovered.
She always recovered.
This was set to be her life, as far as she knew. Not that she let herself think about the future. Focusing on every moment as it comes has been crucial to not letting herself go mad.
And it's especially important during days like these - when her master is entertaining.
It's not just the usual sadistic allies this time. A dracon is present - she caught traces of the word through the passing Druk’hari, chittering excitedly between themselves.
Dracon. An elite officer with direct ties to their Kabal’s archon. Xandra knew these things from her many encounters with the enemy of humanity during her military service. She'd never come in direct conflict with one, only their forces. But they were known to be ruthless. There was more to them than that, something she couldn't recall at the moment…but it hardly mattered.
Keep the glasses full. Haul away the corpses. Bring the platters of narcotics regularly. Stay out of the way.
She goes in and out of the room, staying on the edges. There's already plenty of the master’s favorite pets present, bawling and bleeding on the floor, so she's not worth noticing as she deftly slips in and out, grabbing empty cups and setting stims into expectant, open hands.
No one notices her. She has to dodge a thrown knife at one point, but it wasn't meant for her, just a typical hazard of these tense political gatherings. She collects it from the wall it was embedded into, careful not to damage the blade, and sets it aside on the table next to her master.
She feels eyes in her back after that, but only momentarily.
Attention is quickly turned back to her master's latest obsession - some sort of arena purchase. Another human, but one that has keenly embraced his master's patronage. He has been happy to spill blood, providing plenty of entertainment to slake the thirst of the Druk’hari audience.
Since he is human, there are translation devices, which is how she learns these things. His masters occasionally ask him scripted questions, which he responds to with practiced, eager blood-lust. She's abruptly commanded back to the pantry to fetch a different bottle of wine, and is more than happy to leave the disgusting scene.
A human eagerly bending the head for metaphorical pets from his sadistic masters, desperate to please them by shedding human blood for their filthy appetites. Her jaw clenches slightly at the thought as she locates the wine in the pantry, taking the rare moment alone to indulge in a brief show of emotion before making her way back.
He will fall in the arena eventually.
For now, there’s no point in wasting any thoughts on him. Any anger she might feel towards a traitor to humanity won’t help-
“Bleed for my masters, pathetic wretch!”
--
These pathetic little shows of sycophancy are so droll.
What little novel amusement they provided when Marazhai first rose to his rank has long since worn off. The fear he commands with his mere presence is expected, as is the praise and declarations of loyalty (all of them lies)...the entertainment is usually the only thing worth his attention, or else he’d not go at all except for duty’s sake.
But this has been a truly terrible showing.
He knows this house has recently had an upset in leadership, of the typical Druk’hari variety. It’s normal for upstarts like this to take time getting their new properties in order, but this young one clearly has never entertained before. Not for proper company, anyway. And they’d been bold enough to be the ones to extend the invitation! The confidence would be admirable if it weren’t so stupid.
The playthings provided had already been used, for one. Their terror wasn’t fresh. Their skin was already well marked. This new house head was clearly more interested in using their new power to slake their own hedonistic impulses, and entertainment of their betters was secondary.
Understandable, but hardly excusable. Would that he could just slit their throats here and now, go home and inflict the Agonizer on a plaything that would actually make him feel something. But this idiot might still be of more use alive, for now, and he cannot make the decision on his own to decapitate this recently self-established head without permission.
A heave of a sigh leaves him, sharp talons drumming on the table. Soon. Soon he will be the one in charge. Just a bit more patience…
An eyebrow briefly raises when one of his retinue suddenly throws a knife at one of their hosts, for some passing insult - nothing worth Marazhai’s attention, of course. He trusts that if it was sufficiently offensive his chosen support would have appropriately slit their throats. Just new blood testing boundaries, as they are wont to do, and his own putting them firmly back in line.
No, it’s not the cause of the attack that has his interest. It’s what happens after.
The Druk’hari blade goes sailing through the air, straight towards a mon-keigh slave standing behind. A knife thrown that fast, by one of his own, towards one of the primitive ones…it should have been a death sentence. The blade should have pierced its throat, left another body bleeding under their boots. But even with its attention focused on its duties, it still saw the danger and flinched back - just enough to save its own life. It might have even felt the kiss of the knife’s edge on its fragile flesh.
But there was no delicious spike of fear to follow the near death experience. Did it even realize just how close it had come to oblivion? Or was it that stupid?
He watched it grip the weapon by the handle, pulling it free of the wall in one decisive, sharp tug that left it fully intact. The masters of the house didn’t even notice one of their slaves had taken up a weapon - even when it approached the table to set it down amongst the cruel hands that had thrown it. Was this one lobotomized? It would be practical, he supposed, on some level, to keep one well trained mon-keigh around, but such a waste…
For a while he watched it, but it did nothing else interesting, and his eyes glazed over again. The hosts continued to be oblivious to his bored tapping, even as he all but glared at their stupid gladiator pet. Why was that thing here, and not slaking thirst in its proper place? Just to brag?
“I see little point in parading your pet around if you’re not going to make proper use of it…” Marazhai finally interrupted, heaving out a tiresome sigh. “Either demonstrate this creature’s supposed viciousness or gut it. I’ve little patience for your endless words.”
“Of course, my lord!” The way they light up at his suggestion, as though they’ve been waiting for him to make it, makes him scowl. He did not want to be part of their stupid script. They turn, picking up the translator and pointing at the mon-keigh from earlier, barking at it to fetch wine. As soon as it leaves, they turn to their sweaty, heaving human pet. “When it returns, show them how quickly you catch your prey unawares, and make them scream in terror as you rip their limbs from their sockets!”
Dismemberment? Maybe this evening wouldn’t be so bad after all…
Marazhai sits up a bit in anticipation, leaning over his lap with his fingers laced together. Maybe the next arena bout would be worth attending if this pet was all his master talked him up to be.
The clueless mon-keigh walks back in with the bottle, gaze distant, and immediately the gladiator lunges for it. “Die for my masters, pathetic wretch!”
If he weren’t a Druk’hari, blessed with eyesight far above any other creature, he may have missed it.
The victim snapped its head towards the lunging mon-keigh, and the bottle of wine was immediately dropped, followed by a tight fist flying towards the exposed throat of the gladiator. He gargled in surprise, staggering back, while it dove to the floor, seizing a shard of the now shattered wine bottle in its fist.
The glass was driven through the back of his knee joint, dropping him low enough for the mon-keigh to grab his head.
There was an ugly, delicious snapping, and the dead pet now dropped at the feet of the nameless mon-keigh, impaling his own eyes on the rest of the wine bottle.
The bloodthirsty, eager chittering from before had been swept away by a dead silence.