"Fifty silver."<br/><br/>The bid came suddenly, cut above the crowds murmurings-- most of them complaints on how the Madame had driven the price up so high for such a pitiful looking thing.<i>He was pretty, of course, but what more would he be good for than warming someone's bed? </i>And yet there had been  much consideration about it, hence the buzz. But all conversation stalled, and turned to look back at one who spoke in accumulative disbelief.<br/><br/>"Say again?" one of the farmers, who had been thinking of going 25 bronze, at the most. Perhaps they had misheard, or maybe even the gentleman had misspoke.<br/><br/>But he would not look any of the onlookers in the eye, only looked straight ahead towards the stage where the slave and the procurer stood, his shoulders squared beneath the black coat he wore. His face was not common in the marketplace, much less on the days where people were sold like cattle to the highest bidder. His companion, who was still struggling with the crowd to rejoin him, had often tried-- insisting there were other wares available, but until now, he had refused.<br/><br/>Tykiri's heart was pounding, but his voice was steady as he spoke again. "Fifty silver, and you will bathe and clothe him before I am to take him." There was a lilt to his words, an accent that was often described as exotic. As more people turned to gawk at him, it could be said that the rest of him could be described as the same.<br/><br/>The brown skinned man stood below six feet, with a chiseled jaw and sloping cheekbones that were covered meticulously in small teal symbols and lines. The markings disappeared into the bright red muffler that was wrapped around his slight shoulders, and the snow disappeared into the white hair that was piled atop his head. His hands were in his pockets, his feet were bare and planted firmly on the ground, despite the winter's biting chill. His eyes were golden and misty, shrouded in a way that always drew questions.<br/><br/>Tykiri's lips parted, tongue darting across them to wet them as he tasted the air once more. He was<i>sure </i>of it. He could not be wrong. That scent was too familiar. He had spent many nights buried in it, and even more dreaming of those times. He yearned for the time he could recall what it was like on his own skin, after hours of being huddled together to face the cold. Until now, it had hovered just out of reach; a ghost of a time that he hated that he could not forget, and yet did not want to let go.<br/><br/><i>It was him</i>.<br/><br/>"Will it be enough, sir?" He asked with an incline of his head. He lifted one hand from his pocket. A small velvet bag, embroidered in gold rest in his palm and rattled with the heft of its contents. "You can count it now, if you'd like."