50 ducats!  And a halfway decent girl to boot.  Drinian moved to the front of the line, along with two other persons.  One person looked like an overweight chef in some skanky part of town and the other ... well, let's just say Drinian wouldn't ask a rat to go live with him.<br/><br/>"55!  Gentle lady in the apron says 55; do I hear 60?  60?  Yes, gentleman with the torn vest - 60."  Damn!  See what he meant?  He needed a servant to keep his clothes half way decent too, even if he was a drunk.  "60, do I hear 65?  Gentleman with the feather hat says 65!"<br/><br/>Drinian would not be outdone by these two.  "80!  I shall give 80."  Suddenly it was a sight; neither of the two "would be" slave holders wanted to go that high.  They both looked at their coins, recounting.  When it seemed one might give a higher bid, they would shake their head.  And then they both walked away.  "Sold to the gentle lord for 80 ducats!"  Drinian turned to the new slave girl.  "Get your stuff, I'm about to give you a better life!" he bellowed, with a grin.  But her grimace was not so reassuring.