Mezolene loved the feeling of bone through lace. Comfort was bred from familiarity, but there was a goose flesh tickle that never became too familiar at the smooth sensation of ivory. She ran her thumb around the hilt of her parasol, shading herself from the sun as the slavers caravan jostled back and forth across the roughly laid wasteland "road".<br/><br/>The sculpted bone grip of her umbrella had once belonged to a creature named Bellingham, a Valerian gladiator by trade, who was most notorious for his sexual deviance and viciousness to the fairer sex. A man with a reputation mostly built around his bedroom activities was an impressive feat, when ones day time work was essentially mass murder as a spectator sport. She had never had the pleasure of meeting him while he was still alive, but to her, this wasn't the hardship it seemed to be to most people. Many of her better friends had been shuffled loose from this hard world of living and breathing.<br/><br/>One thing that every deadspeaker had in common was a zest for life. The best thing to take to the grave was a life well lived, because you and your memories were going to be together for a long long time. Nine times out of ten, a person regrets what they didn't do more than the things they did. Not that she was a creature that had the capacity for regret...<br/><br/>She had hitched a ride with the slavers in Baduin. They were always on the look out for new "talent" and she certainly stood out amongst the standard desert fare. In the beige of the little desert shithole, she was easy to spot. Despite being hidden from the sun beneath the lace shade of her parasol, the fire of her vibrant red hair stood out starkly against the sun faded surroundings of the village of Baduin. She dressed as a lady of quality, satin and silks hugging her form in a manner that only custom clothing could. Fabric the color of bone, it was difficult to say where the garment ended and her own pale flesh began.<br/><br/>While the slavers had mistaken her for a woman of position, there were certain telltale signs she was something else entirely. Firstly her lack of escort. Unusual for a woman travelling through the wastes, let alone a noble of Damacian. Either she did not warrant an escort, could not afford one, or she could take care of herself.<br/><br/>Second, and more subtly, she did not hold herself as a noble might. The false pretense of austerity and oppressive ego were absent in her. Her movements had the soft spoken sensuality of a courtesan. She was practiced in seducing with more than simple words, but the tiniest of cues, her body language quietly promising the world in a single gesture.<br/><br/>Most telling and yet, most subtle... she stank of death. The fragrance was muted by the scent of lilac oil and spices, but was there none the less. Like anisette candy and decay.<br/><br/>They had made it ten miles out before they had tried to take more than the fare she had offered for passage through the wastes. Mezolene disagreed with their position that she should offer them something more substantial than her gold. Perhaps her body? It wasn't that she was particularly shy in this regard, so much as, she knew quite well what the value of the journey was and she had happily offered a price that was both fair and equitable. They remained firm in their position, the discourse turning sour as weapons were brought to the negotiating table.<br/><br/>It had been tense for a few minutes, but in the end, they all came to a fair settlement. Well, all of them except Rivel. What was left of the man after the negotiation could fit in a canteen. It had taken them only five minutes to bury him, the occasional wary glare cast back to the only passenger they had that wasn't wearing chains. She simply sipped delicately at her wine, the burgundy staining her pale lips as she shrugged back at them.<br/><br/>The trip was uneventful by the standards of a wasteland voyage. She had fastened her indigo hued stained glass visor in place as the sandstorm hit, occasionally stifling a giggle as if someone had said something particularly amusing. The slavers would stare curiously at her, but she would pay them no mind, stroking the ivory bone that had once belonged to Bellingham. If she were feeling generous, she might have shared some of the stories he told with them, but given the ribald nature of the discussion, she didn't want to get the slavers sexually excited.<br/><br/>One renegotiation was quite enough for the afternoon...<br/><br/>She paid little mind as they came to a halt outside the cavern oasis, simply sipping idly at her beverage beneath the shade of the canvas top and her lace parasol. Of course, she heard the scuffle, but given that she had pressing business of her own, it hardly concerned her. She had seen enough slaver raids that she didn't think watching one more was worth the effort of hauling herself out of the cart. It was only as one of the slavers burst into her cabin that she decided to take a more active interest.<br/><br/>His name was Noddy, or at least that was what they called him. She had a feeling it was some sort of inside joke, mostly likely about a sexual deficiency. She had meant to ask him, but there had never been a particularly good time to ask the origin of his strange nickname.<br/><br/>Now was clearly NOT a good time either. His face was bruised where something had struck him quite solidly. Panic was writ large across his face as he dug through the storage bins, "I should very much like to help, Noddy. What is it you're looking for?"<br/><br/>"Rope! I need rope! You... you had some. I saw it!"<br/><br/>"Ah..." She nodded sagely. He began to fumble with her slim valise case in his haste, and she clucked her tongue at him, "Noddy. That's mine. It isn't polite to fondle a lady's things without her permission. Calm down." He applied his elbow to the lock again and again, panic lending him strength. The case made an audible cracking noise as the structure began to give way, "Noddy? Please don't open my case..."<br/><br/>The latch gave way with a soft click, as if it were opened from the inside. He fumbled with the handle, his fingers damp with sweat and fear. Mezolene's corpse blue eyes narrowed ever so slightly as she whispered, "I can not stress how bad of a choice you are making at this juncture, Noddy."<br/><br/>+++<br/><br/>Noddy's scream could be heard across the waste, echoing in the cave. It was tinged with what the Damacian's might call l'effroi. Translated literally it was "The Fright", less eloquently known in the wastes as "pants shitting terror". The shriek was blessedly brief and stifled almost immediately. One of the slaves who had a direct line of sight into the caravan itself turned suddenly pale, fainting straight away. She sagged into the embrace of her manacles, dangling limply from the ropes.<br/><br/>Noddy stepped out of the cart with a drunken lurch, or at least most of the man did. Headless, he stumbled a few shuddering steps before collapsing onto the dusty ground. Mezolene followed delicately behind, amazingly quite untouched by what must have been a gruesome slaughter. She clutched her case in one slender hand, her parasol raised against the sun still, as she was mindful of the step down from the cart.<br/><br/>She was put out. Both by the delay and the necessity of killing Noddy. There were few things so upsetting to Miss Myndar than people who refused to listen. She was all about compromise, and often felt she was sometimes too generous in this regard. But without discussion, it was difficult for people to find a common ground.<br/><br/>That and... she hated it when people touched her case.<br/><br/>There was some kind of battle within the caves a few hundred yards away. She had only met one side, so she was still unsure who to root for. Given that she had been forced to kill another of the slavers, the Scarlet Companion was reasonably sure she should try her luck with the other team. Noddy's voice was ever present in her ear now, the paniced birth cry of the newly deceased. As she turned to look back at his lifeless head where it had fallen to smear ichor across the wooden floor of the cart, one thing still puzzled her,"... so tell me. Noddy. Where did you get that name?"