Avarice Blacksteel

Dahlia

Aran had been incarcerated in a small holding cell. There was disappointingly very little to see here. He had not sighted Keith since shortly after his arrival in this place called Mobilong; and assumed the man had left upon completion of his delivery, and he would not see him again.

The cell was small and solid. Nothing but concrete and stone to greet his pacing feet and exploring hands. No bedding or comfort of any kind, nor a place even to relieve himself. Perhaps this would only be an incarceration of short duration? The warrior mused. He stared blankly through the stout bars at the sickening shade of depressing green paint, peeled, decrepit, and carved with graffiti and time.

The creak of a metal hinged door made Aran suddenly look up. A bearded man entered, red bandanna tied about his shaggy head, bearing the captive a plate of hot food and departing without the slightest interaction.

Aran stared for a moment at the tray that sat before him on the floor. Was that rice? He had to confess he had not seen the delicious grain for years, he knew it was mostly imported from Asia as his country had very little water to grow such a crop. Surely though this grain could not be over eight years old? Harvested before the war?

In the absence of eating utensils the warrior sat cross legged on the floor and poked at the well baked grains with his fingers. Cooked perfectly and still hot. Alongside the rice another dish that appeared to be a curry with real meat, possibly lamb. Aran could wait no longer, and ceased his inspection to very swiftly consume the aromatic meal mindless of his dignity.

He sat for some moments after he had finished, strangely sated and dare he say even comforted. It had been a very long time since he had enjoyed good food, not since his dalliance in the strange hospitality of John’stown had he eaten anywhere near this well. The feeling made him both drowsy and satisfied. Though in a few more moments it struck him his food had been laced with a sedative as he crumpled helplessly to the floor.


Aran woke groggy and disoriented some hours later. For a moment the golden warrior thought he remained in the holding cell he had first been interred here. He sat up with a suddenness that made his head spin. Realizing all at once he had been moved and he now wore about his wrists, ankles, and throat heavy closed rings of steel.

He cast his clearing vision about him, brow knotted in acute study. He appeared to be in a very luxurious room. On further introspection he began to feel like an exhibit, a tiger in a gilded cage. He was unsure he liked the feeling.

This cavernous room appeared a windowless space, though it was far from dreary. Lit by fanciful paper lanterns glowing with captured candlelight. The warm and welcoming glow filled the space with relaxing and welcoming ambiance. Plush rugs scattered in a colorful and rich profusion over the floors deadening all sound. There were privacy screens painted with Japanese cherry blossom and many other blooms that Aran not being a horticulturist could not put name to. Shining, highly lacquered furnishings inlaid with mother of pearl, and miraculous cork carvings of Asian vistas frozen beneath glass.

His surroundings were definitely luxurious and aesthetically pleasant. For once in many weeks he was even pleasantly warm. The room was quiet and there was no action to be had so Aran decided he would lay down to rest. There would be time to understand better his situation after a good sleep.


Aran had been dreaming, strange music had permeated this dream. Both exotic, beautiful, disturbing, and sad. Opening his eyes and rising to rest on his arm he was treated to the sight of a beautiful Oriental woman, silken kimono half slung from the graceful curve of her shoulder. Delicately tattooed dahlias spilling in tremendous shades of pinks and carmines cascading down that same shoulder to be lost from sight in the ruby silk of her garment.

The warrior hardened as he was, and long removed from beauty smiled at this vision, quite forgetting his captivity. There was more to see. Before this lovely apparition sat two little girls, one older than the other, they too of Oriental ethnicity, though somewhat more dilute. Heads bowed and eyes downcast clearly listening to the strains of the koto so skillfully played in delicate and subtle fingers.

Aran found he could not tear his eyes away and was loathe to even move lest he interrupt the fascinating tableau before him.

A Siamese cat paraded about the trio while they played, it was hardly more than a half grown kitten. Eyes like opals, with delicate cinnamon points to its fur. It had been years since he had seen a cat, why would anyone bother to keep such a pet that consumed valuable food? This was to Aran’s eyes a scene of ethereal beauty.

Finally the youngest girl who understandably at her wee age was having trouble maintaining focus on the lesson looked up and noticed Aran’s interest. She cried out in fright sighting the predatory man, and the woman swiftly rose from her instrument, sending the children away with a quiet word and the gesture of her hand.

Reinforcing her modesty by pulling the kimono over her exposed shoulder. The woman came towards Aran, eyes like coals, pupils barely discernible. As she drew closer he could discern even more of her loveliness, and it pleased him. This lovely apparition wore a small hint of makeup. A pinkish tint graced her neat lips, and a touch of rouge highlighted her high cheekbones but that was all.

“I am Daria.” She announced in heavily accented English though her Japanese self heavily permeated. Really she had meant to say Dahlia, but her accent limited her pronunciation of many English syllables. “I am your new owner. It pleasure me what I see.”

She was small this woman, barely more than five feet she stood, and yet she seemed imbued with confidence and power. Aran eyed her suspiciously. He did not move or utter a word. He was curious to see what this pint sized doll woman was made of. Part of him found this obliquely amusing. All women to Aran’s mind were for use and no more than slaves.

Oblivious to the contents of Aran’s mind Dahlia continued. “If you are obedient slave you will have privilege. If not punishment will follow. They tell me I should not have bought you, Master Jacques sold me bad deal. They tell me you are willful and much trouble. We will see. How I treat you is up to you. Do you understand?”

The big man decided perhaps he should at least nod. Give this tiny girl whom he could break so easily in one hand a little something in return. Dahlia seemed satisfied with this small gesture of acknowledgment, and promptly he was forgotten as she turned away.