It sounded almost like a compliment.<i>Weak in body, but strong in mind. </i>Mischa wanted to scoff at the premise but kept his mouth shut tight in a thin, unforgiving line. Carpentry wasn't easy. Perhaps he would never be as physically imposing as Viktor by building tables, but the notion that he was weak seemed unfair. It didn't matter much. Not anymore. His skills and inherent useful qualities would benefit the House only as far as Viktor saw fit, and it appeared to Mischa Viktor was in need of few tables or chairs.<br/><br/>Reluctantly, Mischa followed Viktor outside, body weighed down by stubborn discontent. As he walked, bare feet sinking into the warm desert sands, he couldn't help but think on how even the ground beneath his feet felt and shifted differently here. The sand was warm like freshly baked clay, clinging to the naked soles as a layer of red dust. A distant cousin to the coarse, cool white sands of the beaches of Ilimos. Where the sand of his homeland had welcomed him, supported his steps as he strolled along the waters edge inhaling the salty sea air, Viktor's sands felt oppressive. Foreign. His legs began to sink farther and farther as he struggled to find purchase here. Even mimicking Viktor's steps seemed little help, as if the warlord knew some secret to gliding across the sands to which Mischa was not privy. It will take time to learn this place, he knew. A willingness to understand a culture so far removed from his own. But was it worth it? He couldn't imagine anything that would make him want to stay beyond the weak desire to not be a slave laboring away in some quarry until the end of his days.<br/><br/>Though he wished he could ignore the festivities around him, the sheer magnitude of the celebrations made that nigh impossible. That had been clear even while tucked away in his little bungalow. He knew not what they were celebrating. Perhaps another conquest. Victory in battle. A birth, a marriage, or just the fact that the moon had graced them with its presence. Mischa couldn't say; these desert dwellers seemed to find no end to the list of things meriting a party. They were loud and boisterous, wearing their glee out for the world to see and envy. Mischa could not decide whether he was intrigued or disgusted, or perhaps he only wished he was disgusted as he stood there, eyes following the attractive gyrations of this fire bride, her warm sunkissed skin shimmering under the flickering light of the flames.<br/><br/>The woman danced as though she were the fire's master. It did not lick at her for fear of her retaliation, but she seemed not to worry so much about the flames' mercurial temperament. To have a mistress so alluring, so confident in her ability to tame, it forced Mischa to consider the man who had taken him. Was this a common trait of their people, this unshakable arrogance, this innate knowledge that nothing could hurt them? Or was it only Viktor and these fire dancers who teased and poked at beasts capable of vast destruction? Perhaps that was the appeal, to control the uncontrollable. Or was there another motivation? Not to tame, but to be one with the object of their fascination? Impossible to know. These people were still foreigners to him, even if he was on their land, viewing their culture through a lens meant for something else. Maybe comprehension wasn't possible. At least not tonight.<br/><br/>"I don't understand," Mischa admitted, shaking his head in response to his master's condescending invitation. He crossed his arms over his chest, frowning. He felt a child, forced to play a game in which he never wanted to be a participant. "I do not know how to dance like her," he explained, pointing. "Nor do I know the ways of swallowing fire. There is clearly some trick, some sneaky thing your people do to achieve such magical effects, but I know nothing of this. What shame it would be to acquire yourself a slave only to have him burn himself alive through ignorance. If this is what you desire, to waste a man with skill, then so be it. Set me up for a game I am destined to lose, teach me a lesson. I care little."<br/><br/>He sighed, wishing he could snap and make all this chaos disappear. He yearned for the gentle swell of the ocean. The crisp smell of salt. "Take me to her," he demanded, pointing to the woman with the braid of fire swirling about her curvaceous form. "If I am to make a fool of myself, at least I shall have the comforting sight of a pretty woman."