<div class="quoteheader"><div class="topslice_quote">Quote from: auroraChloe</div></div><blockquote class="bbc_standard_quote">Her belly rumbled in quiet need and she wondered if he'd soon leave to get food and if she might take advantage of it.  Then a sudden clamour hastened her finishing up and she stumbled in her rush to return to his side.  Wide eyed, she stared at the only familiar face.  Smooth skin went pale under tear streaked dirt as she covered her ears.  "What is it?  What's happening?"</blockquote><div class="quotefooter"><div class="botslice_quote"></div></div><br/>"Damned if I know, but it doesn't sound good," muttered Brand.  Nearby, Lady was antsy, whinnying her panic and repeatedly pawing the ground.  The slaver reached out with a gloved hand and caressed the horse's neck, stroking the muscled hide, murmuring soothing whispers into her ear in an attempt to allay her distress.  When Briallen returned, he shot a glance backward at the girl.  "Stay there," he commanded, leaving the horse to rummage once again in the back of the wagon.<br/><br/>Around them, men were rushing to and fro, shouting and barking orders to each other.  He caught something about<em>Fire!</em>amidst the hubbub, and, indeed, if he looked to the [EDIT]<strong>south</strong>, he could see an orange glow on the horizon.  His nostrils caught a faint whiff of ash and smoke.  From the sound of things, the harbor was under siege.  Not a place where he wanted to be, then.<br/><br/>Producing a pair of manacles and a length of rope, he approached the girl.  "Give me your hands," he commanded.  His tone brooked no argument; the brusqueness and sense of urgency in his voice communicated quite clearly that any display of rebellion or stubbornness would not be tolerated.  His green eyes were cold, but not cruel.  He did not particularly enjoy this line of work, but it was lucrative.<br/><br/>Assuming she let him shackle her wrists together with the manacles, he secured them, by way of the rope, to his glove.  It was demeaning, a little bit like a dog on a leash, but he had learned long ago not to take any chances.  Show them a bit of compassion, a bit of mercy, and he would certainly regret it.  "Walk," he commanded.    Taking up stride behind her, his voice took on a more conversational tone.  "Usually at this point we would visit a friend of mine to get you all prettied up; the King prefers his girls to look exotic, clad like the Southern harem dancers.   We don't have a lot of time, though.  We'll need to find you something to wear--" he picked at the dingy, dirty sack she wore--"and then we'll have to go straight there.  Perhaps we'll find you something to eat on the way, if you're good."