Adamion considers Fern's comment with a wary expression.  His brows are lowered, fit to gripping some inscrutable consideration.  For awhile, the only movement in the Garden is the languid brush of the wind, like some sultry odalisque running her tongue along Fern and Miaren's bareness in welcome.<br/><br/>Then his scathing glare slides over to Miaren.  It catches the protective shift of her posture, skims along the supple tensions that migrate through her soft limbs.  He runs its edge through her eyes and sharpens it at her rumble.<br/><br/>When he speaks, it is with a measured dominance to his tone, as though leading Fern along her first steps as a child.<strong>"She certainly seems disposed to you though, and it would be a shame for us to have to control her with whips and magics."</strong><br/><br/>He extends an arm to indicate a nearby rack - a work of mellow, dark wood set at medium height in two brackets - one to balance a bent set of hips, another to support the upper body.  Straps run along it, allowing a figure to be affixed while bent forward, haunches raises, bound around the waist, over the chest and by the arms.<br/><br/><strong>"Lead her there, bend her forward and fasten her."</strong>Adamion commands unhurriedly, in a voice that suggests no possibility of Fern's defiance.<strong> "You may take your time and gentle her.  If you require guidance, simply look to me.  Again - no more words."</strong>