Mischa sputtered as Viktor released him, air rushing into his lungs, overwhelming him with breath. Though the warlord had loosened the hold on his throat, curious—perhaps possessive—fingers crawled across the young man's chiseled face, exploring. Remembering. Calloused fingertips danced along the sharp rise of Mischa's cheekbones, following the trail of his jaw, leaving Mischa hot and yet somehow still trembling. The young male was defiant and wild, but he recalled just how skilled and strong Viktor was. Lashing out now would do him no good.<br/><br/>“You ask if I wish for freedom?” Mischa scoffed, turning his face away only slightly from Viktor before the warlord silently eased his gaze back to him with the subtle pressure of his touch. “I'm sure you're aware of the use of rhetorical questions,<i>Master</i>.” The title was hissed and dripping with wet, sticky sarcasm. Vikor was perhaps<i>a</i>master, but he certainly wasn't Mischa's. “Your Maester is nothing more than a stuffy windbag and your artisans are mediocre, at best. I have seen their work. It is no surprise to me that your people are known more for their skills in battle and less their craftsmanship. I see now why you must force more talented peoples to serve your cursed House.”<br/><br/>Viktor didn't seem to rising to Mischa's bait, and the boy shifted uncomfortably beneath his single sheet as this warlord gave him choice advice. Though Mischa spoke with a hard and seemingly unbreakable dissent, he was well aware of the opportunities available to him, and little appeared any better than what the House provided. Being free meant wandering a foreign desert land, not a scrap of clothing or penny to his name. Beggars never fared well, no matter the land or people that surrounded them, and it wouldn't be long before another House snatched him up to serve in more disagreeable ways. Viktor hinted at this with a cold, calculated grin, leaving Mischa curling his lip in displeasure.<br/><br/>“Yes, I built many things. Functional and decorative. I sculpt, carve, and create. I could teach your artisans many a lesson,” Mischa muttered. He settled back on his cot, back of his head resting uneasily against his soft pillow. “I find it difficult to believe you want me here just to what? Build you tables and chairs? Carve marionettes or a child's toy for you? I can do these things. But is that truly what you want?”<br/><br/>The warlord was ominous, turning away and exposing nothing but the muscled lines of his back, Flames from the bonfires danced like frenzied wenches along the walls and Viktor's copper skin. Mischa's eyes dared a glance when the warlord spoke once more, giving him a warning. Or perhaps a chance? It was difficult to say, and Mischa frowned with mild confusion.<br/><br/>“Give up on my pride?” he replied softly, shaking his head, dark tendrils of hair drenched in sweat sticking to his forehead. “How can I give up on the only thing you have not managed to yet snatch away from me, warlord? You have taken my family, my possessions, my home. You have all but destroyed my homeland. What is left for me other than pride in my desire to deny you and your House satisfaction? It is all I have left. You say I have opportunity to 'grow into a man.' But what does that even mean to one such as me who has lost all motivation to develop into anything? Do you have an answer to that? Why bother pledging myself to a man like you? A man who breathes death, destruction, and sorrow.”<br/><br/>Whether Viktor wanted to answer him or not, Mischa couldn't predict. The young man pulled the linen sheet around himself in a huff, not unlike a stubborn and upset child. His deceased father would have scolded him for such a tantrum, but the man was no longer here to chastise Mischa for his immaturity. All Mischa had left was Viktor. And his ugly, misplaced pride.