Amora stood by, head bowed slightly and her arms in front of her. She felt him circle her like a hawk, and she shut her eyes tightly. She was still fearful, rightfully so. He clasped a leather collar around her throat, and went to get something else. She put a hand up to the collar, feeling the soft leather gently, but didn't make a move to loosen it. This was her mark, the mark of a slave, a pet, and nothing more. The prospect of being a pet for the rest of her life made her want to fall to his feet and beg for him to finish her off right then and there. He began drying her off, she stiffened each time the towel touched her skin, and Midnight slipped the t-shirt over her head and she poked her arms through the sleeves. It wasn't very long, but it was still clothing.<br/><br/>He began to cut her hair. She listened quietly, only muttering a 'Yes sir," once he was finished. She stooped down to pick up the hair clippings and throw them away. She began picking up papers and books and putting them where she thought they needed to go. She found herself glancing over her master's shoulder at what he was writing. To her, it looked like scribbles on a page, but that was only because she couldn't read nor write. No one in her home could, except for the elderly, but they were very weak and ill and she didn't have time to learn such things. She was entranced as the quill moved across the paper, curving and swooping to create a story, or that's how she thought of it.<br/><br/>Curiosity killed the cat, and curiosity often leads to trouble, but Amora didn't realize that until it was too late. She was still looking at the page he was writing on while she stacked some loose papers on the desk, and accidentally knocked over the nearly empty ink bottle. She grabbed it, but it was too late; a small blob of ink had spilled onto the page her master was writing. She swallowed, heart skipping a beat. "I'm sorry!" she whimpered, though apologies wouldn't clean up the mess.