Tavros

The slave market of Tarnsburg stretched before Tavros like a crude amphitheater carved from weathered stone, its tiered platforms displaying human chattel beneath the harsh afternoon sun. Wooden auction blocks stood at varying heights, some ornately carved for premium slaves while others remained rough-hewn for common kajira. Iron rings embedded in the stone secured chains of varying lengths, allowing potential buyers to examine their purchases from multiple angles. Silk pavilions in warrior scarlet and merchant gold provided shade for the wealthier patrons, while lesser buyers crowded the sun-baked lower tiers.

Merchants in flowing robes called out prices while potential buyers examined their wares with calculating eyes, running hands along exposed flesh to test firmness, checking teeth for health, examining brands for authenticity. Slavers cracked their whips not in punishment but as signals—a sharp crack meant "display position," two quick snaps commanded "turn around," while a gentle tap indicated "kneel for inspection."

The air hung heavy with the scent of unwashed bodies, cheap perfumed oils used to mask less pleasant odors, and the metallic tang of the iron chains that secured the slaves to their posts. Braziers burned sweet incense near the premium blocks where silk-clad pleasure slaves posed languidly, while rougher work slaves huddled on straw-covered platforms near the market's edges.

Tavros moved through the crowd with measured steps, his scarred face causing subtle shifts in the flow of people around him—mothers pulling their children closer, merchants averting their gazes, even hardened warriors giving him a wider berth than necessary. The beauty of battle marks, he thought bitterly, running fingers along the raised tissue that bisected his left cheek. The ironic thing was, before the siege of Treve, before Kaelen's death, before everything went to ash, he'd never needed to purchase companionship.

"Tal, Tavros!" called Marcus, a slave trader whose establishment occupied the prime position near the market's center. "Liri tu ko dom ahn?" (Greetings, Tavros! Do you come to my house today?)

"Mi liri kur kajira," Tavros replied curtly, his dark eyes already scanning the selection of kajira chained to the trader's platform. (I come seeking a kajira)

Several slaves whispered among themselves in hushed, fearful tones as he approached. "Liri ko thalarion... " one murmured to another. (Behold the scars...) "Mi osoka pro vo," came the soft reply. (I fear him) A third kajira, her voice barely audible, added "Vo Kur." (He is a monster)

Tavros's jaw tightened, but his expression remained impassive. Let them whisper—their opinions mattered as little as the chittering of urts in the walls.

The auction pavilion of Tarnsburg thrummed with the energy of commerce and desire, its scarlet banners bearing the city's proud emblem fluttering in the afternoon breeze. Torches lined the circular stone structure despite the daylight, their flames casting dancing shadows across the faces of merchants, warriors, and craftsmen who had gathered to inspect the latest shipment of kajira. The air was thick with the scent of leather, steel, and the subtle perfume that clung to the display silks worn by the slaves awaiting their fate.

Tavros moved through the crowd with the measured stride of a warrior, his scarred face drawing quick glances and hastily averted eyes from those around him. The deep furrows that ran from his left temple to his jaw, souvenirs from a Trevian blade, marked him as clearly as any brand. His dark eyes surveyed the pre-auction display with the calculating gaze of one who had learned to assess value quickly - whether in weapons, tarns, or flesh. These scars have cost me much, he thought grimly, watching as a particularly lovely blonde kajira in blue silks shrank back when their eyes met, her face going pale with fear.

"Liri! Montra Korda!" Look! Display for master! barked the slaver's assistant, snapping his whip near the trembling girl's feet. She immediately assumed the presentation position, but her hands shook visibly as she knelt with thighs spread, her blue eyes wide with terror as they fixed on Tavros's battle-scarred visage. The warrior felt the familiar sting of rejection twist in his chest, but his expression remained impassive. Beauty feared the beast - it was the way of things.

The auctioneer, a portly man in the green of the Merchant caste, was already calling out prices for the side block girls. "Kef-Kajira! Dek Tarsks! Venda Mira!" Branded slave girl! Ten tarsks! Buy now! His voice carried across the pavilion as lesser slaves were quickly sold to tavern keepers and minor craftsmen. But Tavros's attention was drawn to the main display area where the premium stock awaited their turn. These were the trained pleasure slaves, their bodies adorned in the finest silks - red for the experienced, white for the virgins, gold for those destined for the highest bidders.

A raven-haired beauty in shimmering red silk caught his eye momentarily, her dance training evident in every graceful movement as she displayed herself. But when she lifted her gaze and saw his scarred face, she let out a small gasp of fear. "Na! Na Korda!" No! No master! she whispered desperately to the slaver, who immediately raised his hand threateningly. The girl fell silent but continued to tremble, her dark eyes darting anywhere but toward the intimidating warrior who studied her with professional detachment.

Even the trained ones fear me now, Tavros mused, his hand unconsciously moving to touch the worst of his facial scars. Brother, you died saving this face, and look what it has become. The bitter irony was not lost on him - he had the coin to purchase the finest kajira in the pavilion, but his appearance made even the most desperate slave recoil in terror. Perhaps it was time to look beyond mere beauty, to find one who might see past the scars to the man beneath.