Mon Petite Bichon

by Arya Stark

Rating: mature
Tags: Dark, Crossover, Alternate Universe, Human, Anthro
Length: 1526

Taken as a 'pet' of several different purposes, to a 'Sir Sombra', the young rebellious Eva Baxter must figure out a way to escape, or forever accept her new role as her new Master's 'Little Bitch".....

Taken as a 'pet' of several different purposes, to a 'Sir Sombra' the young rebellious Eva Baxter must figure out a way to escape, or forever accept her new role as her new Master's 'Little Bitch"…..

But, to whom and were she is taken is a tale of its own….

For Mike and Daisy; because you dared me to. Can I have my money now?

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2014-09-01 18:22:35 UTC

Sold

“A girl of 19, fresh from a noble family, fair in hand, experienced in actions, only 30 coins from your pockets!”

Somewhere deep in a world not so different from that of Earth’s, in the furthest corner in which no human would wander often, was a semi-large crowd, all orbiting around a few single spectacles in which this professional voice boasted out. The crowd consisted of men from early twenties to late 50’s, though age hardly played into what was the interest on the stage.

Another gable slam on the block of wood.

“Female of 16 years of age, a farmers hand, strong but compliant! Take her fast, men, she is a good bed warmer!”

More men would shuffle up, and through the crowd one could peek and see a small child being taken away in rope, a thick leather collar strapped around her neck, a un-scriptable look on her face as it was a mix betwixt many emotions, before the crowd shuffled forward to swallow the scene up.

Furthest down the roughly built stage (the structure had once suggested it was a stage set as a gallows, though the hanging structure had been long since taken down) stood the youngest looking girl, betwixt the age of 17 or 19. She stood the shortest at a mere 5’3”, with a lithe and slim form, a ragged woolen tunic hanging over her shoulders, and ripped and dirty black leggings to complete the garments. Her skin was a pale tone, with a mess of mousey brown hair hanging from her face, tangled and matted in areas, obviously not attended to for quite some time. Startling sapphire blue eyes glared out at the crowd, as if challenging each and every one of the members, daring them to look back at her. If they were brave enough, she would bare her teeth at them in a silent snarl, satisfied as they would look away once more.

The feature that stood her apart from the rest, however, seemed to be what her larger than necessary tunic covered; a large bulge spoke a unique story underneath the fabric, and a hole was what delivered the story; dark golden-brown feathers peeked out, bent and injured, only hinting at what the condition of the actual appendage might look like.

Whilst she glared, a tall and lean yet built man slowly approached the stage, his features mostly concealed by the cloak hood in which he draped over his face. At his side a sword belt suggested he was of the higher end as far as wealth went, though not of the highest, since he chose to wear a simpler cloak, not laden with design or jewel. As he walked, the sun would just barely hit a fraction of his face, revealing a narrow chin and aristocratic nose.

Heavy boots crunched across the dirt as he approached the stage, only stopping when the man was directly in front of the last girl. His eyes leveled over her, drinking in her posture and figure, his face impassive.

The girl herself didn’t notice the man until he was placed right in front of her. But as soon as she did, her chin jerked up in a quick gesture, swift to meet his gaze in a defiant glare. The two stood like that for several moments, seeming oblivious to the selling master sauntering on over, attracted to the scene.

“What about you?” The man finally murmured, either to himself or the girl. He bore a strange accent, so strange and forieng that the girl could never have claimed to of ever heard it before, and little did she know, nobody had heard it before. Of course, who was anyone to assume this man’s secret? “Would you suit me, do you think? Make a good little… pet?

The girl’s response itself was illicit; the slaves weren’t supposed to talk. And so her response was unwarranted and quite a shock;

“Go eat pig piss!”

The comment was responded by the slave master who had strode up behind her, delivering a sharp blow to her ear, knocking her sideways with a gruff growl. The man in front of the snarling girl noted with some interest that the youth did not cry out as she was hit; instead she righted herself again, and to his amusement, with a snarl at the master himself and an even worse glare.

“Only speak when spoken to, bitch!” the slavemaster growled.

“Technically, I did!” The girl snarled back in return, earning another blow from the master. After righting herself, she continued to glare, as if nothing had happened.

The potential buyer, in the meantime, with a chuckle, had made his decision. “Oh yes…I think you are just the sort I am looking for….”

From his pocket he gracefully extracted a leather pouch that chimed in the only way that promised the presence of coin. The slavemaster didn’t seem to know what to do as nearly a total to that of what 60 coins would have been were passed to his palms, though he was quick enough to pocket the metal. Recovering his wits soon enough, he gave the buyer a graceful and very pleased smile.

“Thank you, sir,” he said, and then snapped his fingers. With a flurry, an assistant appeared from where he had been advertising the remaining slaves to the crowd.

It seemed both were familiar with the female and her rebellious nature, for it took the two of them to collar the girl, though they did it with slight efficiency that hinted they had had to deal with her before in this manner. But soon enough, a thick leather collar was around her neck, and the thick rope attached was handed from the slave trader to the buyer. Wrapping the rope once around his hand, the buyer extended his free one to shake the slavemaster’s hand.

“Good doing business with you,” he said smoothly, ignoring the girl’s growls and heated death glares.

“A pleasure indeed,” the master responded with a chuckle, his shake not as firmly gripped as the buyers. The man however, took pause to look over the buyer, tilting his head just so in a curious manner. “Pardon me for possibly appearing rude, but you carry quite the foreign accent, a dialect I can’t detect. Might I inquire as to where you are from?”

Full of good graces, at least to an extent, the buyer eyes the inquirer over with an amused look. “You may inquire, as you just did, I suppose. My answer, however, is one that I cannot provide, but I may leave you with the response; ‘from very far away’….”

The slavemaster’s brows furled into a frown, a mix between disappointment and possibly disapproval. But perhaps wisely, he dropped further line of questioning, and moved on, gesturing to the girl, who had taken the moments of distraction to fiddle with the collar, trying to manipulate it off, though evidence clearly stated she had not been successful.

“Good luck with her; we haven’t quite managed to break her yet, and she will give you a tough time. She has been through 5 hands already, all with the same reports of stubborn resilience.” It was noted that clearly the master had neglected to share this information until after the transaction. “Oh, and the girl’s name is Arya….she wouldn’t have told you that.”

Something flickered in the man’s gaze as he shifted his eyes to the girl, only briefly matching the girls scowling eyes. “I see,” he nods, accepting the information and name, but with a smirk, rumbled, “Though I doubt I will be using that name much, now will I, Pet?”

“Eat pig piss,” the girl, Eva, spoke again, repeating her first statement.

A small smirk tugged onto the man’s face. “Keep talking like that, I know what to get you for dinner…Now, come along.”

But before he could drag his new prize away, the trader spoke up one last time. “I din’ catch your name, sir.”

The buyer turned back to the trader, a flash of a fiery gleam in his eyes as a crooked smile curved upon his lips. When he spoke, it was with a new tone entirely, deeper and rich, so low in fact the trader had to strain to hear it. And when the name was revealed, it resonated such authority he couldn’t help but lower his head in a form of a deep nod. “Well, you leave with my best of luck, King…” the man drew off a bit, for he chose to believe he had heard the man wrong. “…Sir Sombra.”

“Likewise.” the man, now titled 'Sombra' chuckled low in his throat, and then that was the end of it.

No longer acknowledging the trader, who had likewise turned his attention back to new customers, the man, a ‘Sir. Sombra’ gave a non-too gentle yank of the leash, causing Arya to stumble forward. Resisting, the girl dragged her feet until she was forced to keep up or risk strangulation as the man confidently strode forward, taking his unwilling new pet along with him, until the pair was swallowed into the thick crowd.