"That's what you were taught. That's not what it actually means." She wasn't looking at his face, his eyes told a different story to what the mask he had carefully designed to reveal. He didn't know if what he did was right, but he couldn't let her disrespect the pack any longer. And he couldn't let her get under his skin anymore. He needed to put on a brave face and find his center, and teach her how to be part of the Armada.

"It means to... have regard for others. To be polite." His tone was turning softer, "They didn't teach you respect, or honor, or dignity." He pitied her! That was what was dragging him kicking and screaming into this mess! He pitied her! She had been so abused and broken that he didn't know how to save her! It rankled him to no end! He had never come across anyone that had been so broken and abused, that even the basic right of respect had been twisted for her!

"You must be tired. Come, if you don't want it scar I'll tend it for you." He was tired. She constantly sent him through mental flip-flops. He didn't regret the mark on her maw. He didn't...He shouldn't. He started to lead her back to the clinic again.

"Speech!"

Code © Skelle/Witchdogtor DO NOT USE WITHOUT PERMISSION

He thought respect meant to be polite? He had some of the strangest ideas in the world. Her mare words seemed to twist under his skin so easily, but he seemed too afraid to let his monster out. Politeness mattered to him. Such a simple concept, one that meant to shit to anyone she knew. Oh, they were going to be a bad mix. She was stuck with him, the monster who needed politeness first and foremost!

She had no words for him, not right now. Why would they teach her honour or dignity? Her job was to lie horizontal while they whored her out to whoever they pleased. To pick up after their drunken messes, and be their punching bag. Seemed Oleander wanted a punching bag too, but he was back to his pretending. It was too late, she had seen.

She got to her paws when he bid her too, she was still frustrated and angry and confused, and heart sick. Her mother had given up her life for this, and Vesper was back where she had started. “Whatever pleases you more, my Lord.” To scar, or not to scar. What did he want his slave's face to look like?


"Speech"

A grimace set over his lips again as he led her back inside, "No Vesper, not whatever pleases me. You disrespected the pack with your attitude and flagrant disregard for the rules back there. There are consequences for that. But letting the mark scar is still your choice here. I'm showing you regard for your choices for your body." I'm showing you what respect truly means, I'm giving you your bodily autonomy. What you should have had in the first place.

He led her back to her bed and went to gather the supplies to at least clean the wound on her maw.
"What is your choice?" He asked, standing expectantly.

"Speech!"

Code © Skelle/Witchdogtor DO NOT USE WITHOUT PERMISSION

He led her fully back to the clinic. The same walls she was seeing so much of lately. She eased herself carefully back into the bed. How she was starting to hate that bed. She remained in a sitting position, still struggling with the sharp turns of the day.

Did Oleander really think that he could show her his monster, and then tuck it away as if nothing happened? She wasn’t entirely sure what she was feeling, and she was struggling with it. Emotions had always been fast and hot with her, but this one was different, it was a slow sort of burn in her gut.

No, she did know this one. She’d been battling it all her life, she just hadn’t known when it had vanished, while she was lying in her Armada cot and teasing her Armada healer. But it had, and she had forgotten it in its absence. It was back in force now, a stronger bitter taste of defeat on her tongue. Hopelessness.

“My choice… my choice is that I don’t care. It’s just flesh, it doesn't matter what happens to it.” She said when he hounded her to decide. Have personality, don’t have personality! What did he want from her! Have personality, but only on his terms. She couldn’t any more. Not today. She just… she just couldn’t today.


"Speech"

She was feeling sorry for herself. She lashed out when she was feeling like that. He recalled her previous remark when he mentioned that her fur might not grow back on her back. She wanted to be and feel pretty. It was probably a sense of control or even empowerment for her...

He nodded silently and gathered his materials.
"Hold still." He commanded. Maybe she wasn't capable of choices yet. He'll save her fur. He'll treat the wound, silently, to a point where it would barely scar. Might even completely heal over. Next time he treated her back he would apply a rosemary oil to it, to stimulate the hair follicles and nerves back to functioning. Poor girl has had enough of the world to last two lifetimes already.

"How old are you?" He asked as he worked, dabbing the blood off her nose and applying a salve. Maybe he could distract her from his tending with such innocuous questions.

"Speech!"

Code © Skelle/Witchdogtor DO NOT USE WITHOUT PERMISSION

At least that command was easy. She held still, the pain from the wound as he touched and tended to it sent dull pulses through her nerves, but pain and her were old friends. With enough time, and enough pain, your body became accustomed to most of it. It was like a mode, where you switched off and felt… nothing. Not pain, or shame or horror. It was a state her mother had been… very, very good at entering. It had always terrified her to see her mother like that. Like she was already dead, her body just didn’t know it yet. She had hated it enough that she seldom let herself fall to it, but she felt numb.

Why did it matter so much to her if she saw Oleander’s monster? Why had she pushed so hard? Why did seeing it feel like she had lost something? There were no heroes, those were fantasy stories you told to babies before they weaned in dark corners and hushed tones.

How old are you? “I… don’t know. No… I remember my first heat cycle, that happened the season before I came here.” Finally, a hint of emotion bled through her dull voice. Horror at the memory. “My Lord.” She added in after a short, forgetful moment.

"Speech"

She dutifully held still as Ollie administered his healing art. He soaked up the blood and gently rubbed the wound to properly clean the scratch. Carefully he applied the salve and laid a comfrey leaf over it. There. Leave that on for a day or two, change it up again, and it'll be gone in a few weeks. He stepped back to admire his handiwork when she answered his question and he took a moment to calculate what that meant. His face fell. Then a ripple of agonized shock fluttered through his features before he could control the carefully crafted Big Strong Healers Mask he had made of a flat, serious, stoic affect back over his features. They were the same age. They were the same age?

They are the same age...

Fuck...
Harrowed, he brought in a breath deep into his lungs. Quick! Ask another innocuous question!
"Uh... How long had you been... out there before the bear got you?" He tried to save his composure. She was a child, she had been just a child when...

It was time to man his market stall! "Hold that thought. I think there was something I forgot to do in the market." He rushed and left her hanging. Again. He needed to send Ignita to her.

"Speech!"

Code © Skelle/Witchdogtor DO NOT USE WITHOUT PERMISSION

Hmm, had that gotten under his skin too? She watched him as he finished tending to her face and a hint of shock bled through. And here she had been thinking he had grown calluses to her remarks. “Not long, I’d gotten halfway across the tundra--” she started to say before Oleander very suddenly got to his paws, and shot out of the den. Muttering something about his market stall.

She blinked a few times after his departing form, wondering what the hell had just happened. Then, she remembered that she was well enough to move around and had been left unattended… she got slowly to her paws, half expecting Oleander to step right back in and yell ‘psych!’ but nothing but silence greeted her movements.

She took another step, still nothing and no one. She slipped quietly into his study behind the clinic, to do a little poking around.


"Speech"