He always thought of the protestors as people who simply were to naive or dense to really think any of this would work, but as the years had drawn on and it had gathered a following, perhaps he was the one who was dense. Dumitri had always been involved in slavery, since he was a toddler. His father had raised and trained slaves, and as he had grown into a young man so had Dumitri. This was his life, his way of living. He broke them. He trained them. He taught them to be lovers or fighters, or to be simple, obedient servants and now... his livelihood was being challenged.<br/><br/>"Excuse me," he told one of the protestors, "You are in my way."  The way into this glorious building of stone and brick, with finely carved gargoyles looming over head and chiseled vines that traveled along the columns that made it's entrance grand and intimidating in a way that it beckoned you to almost challenge its stability. Dumitri had that same sort of presence.<br/><br/>By any standard, he was strong. He was not a small man, yet he was not overly large, he stood around six feet in height, and while not overly oppressive, the words if looks could kill came to mind when he smiled to the person in his way and stared at them. They yelled, and even as he yelled some nonsense about being godless and being sinners, his voice trembled when he looked at Dumitri as if the devil himself was passing by him in one of the most debonaire suits of the era.<br/><br/>He smoothed a hand over his dark brown hair, tied neatly back as he moved through the thinning crowd, what he considered thinning considering the years before. This polite reminiscing averted by finally finding what he came here for, the holding cells of the slaves.<br/><br/>He had something particular in mind. Obedient. Loyal. Enjoys being a fucking slave. With the way things were outside, the last thing he wanted was for another to have a flicker of hope of freedom, to which he would have to immediately smother the flame. After all, he was getting older and he knew he was going to need a new occupation soon, not because he couldn't do it anymore, but because of the growing solidarity of the abolitionists beyond the doors.<br/><br/>Find someone, who even beyond the title, would stay and serve. That's when he saw him, his own dark eyes locking onto the emerald jewels of the bashful. And what was that? Did he have some sort of object? Hm...<br/><br/>He slowly made his way over, never in a rush, but with the cane in his hand and the way he used it, it was difficult to detect the slight limp in his right leg. An injury of days past. It didn't make him any less lethal, just made his day that much more aggravating - in his opinion.<br/><br/>"I want to see the redhead," he would tell one of the sellers who would go to Conner and bring him out so Dumitri could look over him like a man buying a horse. That is precisely what it was likely to feel like to Conner as Dumitri would hand over his cane to Conner to hold, almost as a challenge as he reached up to  check his teeth and his hands began to roam over his body, squeezing here and there along his arms, chest, and back. "Why is this one being sold?" He asked the seller as he continued his search for any sort of illness or injury.<br/><br/>The seller would tell the short of it, and Dumitri would also take a note to watch his mannerisms. If all went well it would be an almost immediate exchange of monies. He would also take his cane back with a casual manner and turned his back to start walking. "Come along, and don't bother to run. When I play chase, I grow a little rabid, best to keep the beasts at bay no? Besides, you must surely be tired, lets get you fed and cleaned up."