Rhone waited by the auctioneer as his new master paid his bill. The man was tall, lean, and pale. Most of his masters were pale skinned, so that didn't surprise him too terribly much. Rhone had learned over the years to associate a pale complexion with cruelty and deceit. He'd only met a handful of decent people who had it. 

This man, however, seemed nice enough. He insisted that the shackles be removed from Rhone, freeing his wrists and ankles from the rusted metal. He gingerly rubbed his wrists once the weight had been removed from them, cautiously reminding himself not to let a small act of kindness win him over. It wasn't a new trick. A master would act kind to him at first, try to win his trust, but when they lost their patience with him, they were like all the rest. 

Rhone kept his eyes downward as the man introduced himself, trained to never look his master in the eye. He was taught that they weren't equal; he didn't have the right. He was taken aback when the man, Lucien, offered his hand. Rhone stared at it. His own hands were dirty and calloused. No other master before would have let him touch them with such filth. But to openly defy the man by refusing the gesture was asking for a beating. 

Rhone slowly reached out and took the man's hand, only for a second, and them quickly returned his own by his side. "Rhone," He said simply, his voice lightly accented. He hadn't spoken his native tongue in a long time, but there was still a light trace of it when he talked. Occasionally, he would meet another Sudalian slave to converse with, but it was rare. Most of the time, they were beaten for speaking in any other language than English.