'Firefly meets Battlestar Galactica'.
A merchant's daughter is captured and sold into slavery.
A genetically modified survivor of an alien attack scours the galaxy for her taken brother before he is 'disassembled'.
An alien scientist u...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Another slave came for her, taking her back to their quarters. This one was a full bred Fey, with wide scars spilling from the corners of her mouth and empty eyes. She said nothing as she helped Macbeth strip out of the Nisserian shift, donning a plain version of the Patrician's robes like the other female slaves wore. She teared up as she washed her face with the sulfur scented water, and smoothed down her hair. The silent slave made her uncomfortable, she was afraid to speak to her. Instead she kept still as the woman swabbed her arms and neck with sweet smelling oil before leading her back through the kitchens.
It wasn't long until a bell tolled the beginning of the evening meal. Macbeth straightened, nearly dropping the container of wine one of the slaves handed to her. The smell hit her, like honey and wildflowers, nothing like the poison her father used to drown himself in. It sparkled faintly inside the metal container, like liquid sunlight.
The meal commenced. Macbeth was led into the room, and direly stationed behind the white haired Pathosian she saw in the gardens earlier. He was surrounded by other males, their robes a deep purple color with a stitched embroidery on the hems. At the end of the table on a raised dais sat the master of the house. This was the other Pathosian from the garden. Macbeth took a moment to study him. His skin was a darker red than the others around him, closer to the color of blood. Long black hair artfully braided with threads of gold fell past his shoulders. His dark horns were polished to a shine. He watched everyone with red eyes flecked with gold, giving them a jewel like appearance. His gaze was intent, never looking away from the person speaking to him. One hand grasped a decanter, each finger adorned with a thick gold ring. His robe was pure white, without any embellishments.
He appeared regal. Macbeth could tell in a heartbeat this was a man used to power. Beside him sat Patrician Calliope Chrysostem, nodding and smiling to all who addressed her, but when no one spoke with her, the Patrician's violet eyes were bored. Her gown was more decorative, a light orange color, threaded to look like flames. At the base of the dais, seated at the Master's feet, was the beautiful woman. Between her deep green low cut gown and dazzling smile, every Pathosian around her salivated into their drinking glasses. A living ornament for her master, but Macbeth couldn't look away until those green eyes lifted, feeling her gaze.
Macbeth swallowed, forcing her attention on the white haired senator. Anything to drive out what she glimpsed in that woman's eyes. She listened, barely grimacing when the implant processed the Senator's thick dialect. Soon it became obvious to her what the man was like. This was her test?
She listened to the males around him as she filled their glasses over and over. They drank and talked for hours. It amazed her none of them slumped over in an alcoholic stupor. Course after course rolled out, the Pathosians packing it all in with vigor. Though Macbeth noticed neither Nero nor Calliope ate or drank much at all. Finally, five trances later, another bell tolled the end of the meal. The slaves emerged from the kitchens to clear the tables while the Pathosians continued to drink and talk. The sun had long ago sunk beyond the horizon when the first dining guest rose to excuse themselves from the table. More soon followed, though a few lingered until Master Nero rose to his feet and bid them goodnight. He took Calliope's arm in his, leaving the room, the beautiful human trailing behind them.
