The orcs call her Doshvin; A name she wore with pride. It meant pet, or at least Doshvin was lead to believe so; The orcs snickered every time her name was spoken. She once had a name in Elvish, Makretia, but she could not even remember that name anymore. She had been punished whenever they asked her name and she told them Makretia, tortured for days, left within hours of dying of exposure or dehydration. Every time she even tried to think of her old name, she could feel the lash of leather on her back, the breaking of her skin. She was happy with Doshvin, was rewarded by her master's touch when she answered to it. And she would do anything to please her master. Gorgamesh was his name, but she wasn't worthy enough to call him that; He had beaten her the one time she had done so. Master was what she was supposed to call him, and she would not misstep again.<br/><br/>She had once, not long ago, been a proud elf, but she was sickened whenever she tried to remember those days. Her mind was so broken that she could barely recall them at all, even if she strained her mind. She had been a warrior, a scout, and she had been very good at her job. She had been extremely stubborn and resistant to their interrogations, willing to die for her cause. Over the months, that began to change as she realized that she would never be liberated, as she was pushed to her mental and physical limits. It had only been a week ago, or so, that Doshvin had finally awoken, truly content with her lot in life, perfectly willing to serve her master. She served him in a very specific way, as well: He had other slaves to fetch him food, to keep his leathers oiled, to pitch his tent. Doshvin was made to please her master, however she could, and she did often.<br/><br/>While his orcish horde stormed yet another defenseless village, master had stayed back, content to allow his men to tear the town apart, killing the men and rounding up the women. After they swept through the village, her master, along with his most obedient men, marched to the temple in the center of town. She was not allowed to stand on her legs, like a proud woman; She was forced to crawl, and she did not mind, simply because it was her master's wish. Doshvin felt ill; not because of the smell of burning flesh or the scream of her kin around her as their lives were taken from them, either literally or metaphorically, but for some other reason, something she did not understand. "Doshvin is sick," she whined once, receiving a swift kick to the side, adding another bruise to her delicate flesh. Still another orc cackled upon hearing her name, but she simply smiled, happy to please her master and his men in any way. Her knees were scraped red, as were her elbows, her palms and her fingers, but she did her best to keep up with her master, sometimes being dragged by his leash, crying in pain when the collar choked her.<br/><br/>As they entered the temple, Doshvin unceremoniously vomited at the door, her illness caused by the strain on her body from their long march and then quick strike on the village, from the physical pain he inflicted on her whenever she was not doing enough to please him, and from... Whatever had been ailing her earlier. She wiped her mouth quickly on her forearm and continued to follow her master, a berth being granted to the powerful warlord as he made his way through several rapes. Some of the women who were not being ravaged were being lined up against the wall; Most were sobbing, but some of them were staring incredulously at Doshvin. It was a look she had often garnered whenever they went through a sacked village, but now she understood them: They were jealous that she had found the warlord's favor! She smiled and sat back on her rump as her master began to mull over his pick of women. Doshvin usually got jealous when he picked one out and took her, just because she loved him, and didn't want anyone to supplant her place at his side. She licked the blood from her scraped hands like a cat, waiting for an opportunity to please her master.