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The flesh-sellers' platform rises above a square in a theatrical display of wooden slaving might. Five thralls stand lined up before a crowd as one-by-one, each thrall is auctioned off.
The first thrall, a well-muscled bear of a man glowers at the crowd as he's lead forward by a unfeeling guard. The fat, curled-mustache-wearing slave driver announces the man as a noble's son and, as such, will be going for a high price.
The second thrall is the first's sister, a truly stunningly-gorgeous young woman without a wrinkle on her face. She's used to better circumstances than the one she's found herself in, that's for sure. She'll likely be bought as a house-slave, if not a bed-warmer. She's not fit for the fields, that much is certain.
The third thrall is a spindly little man with a pair of odd-looking circles on his face that he constantly fiddles with as he's lead up to the front. Supposedly, he's a learned man—though how wise he is remains to be seen, given his current situation.
The forth thrall is a hollow-eyed mother and her two children, a boy and a girl—both of which don't seem to want to talk all that much. It's likely that they saw their father and any older brothers be killed in front of them.
The fifth thrall is a slight waif of a woman who looks like she might faint at the lightest touch of wind. She's hyperventilating as she's dragged forward by the leather straps keeping her wrists bound together, her feet stumbling over each other as she nearly vomits all over her worn, woolen dress.
Would you like to purchase any? Mark all you want to purchase:
[ ] Thrall #1 (150oz Silver)
[ ] Thrall #2 (230oz Silver)
[ ] Thrall #3 (40oz Silver)
[ ] Thrall #4 (60oz Silver)
[ ] Thrall #5 (80oz Silver)
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AN: I don't much like slavery, to say the least.
No moratorium.