What a predicament 12 was in!

She had this kind of owner, once before. A manipulative woman, who let her slaves run free but at night would drag them, kicking and screaming, back to the manor - no matter how many times they ran, or however far they used to run. It was a sickening way to live, under a cruel illusion of freedom and false chains. Perhaps this man was worse than the woman from before, perhaps not...either way, she knew what to do this time - abuse his hospitality and make a break for it at the first possible moment.

But break -where-? Where does a winged woman rush off to? She didn't know where she was, she didn't look like an upstanding citizen, and certainly couldn't hold her own anymore after they ripped her nails out and blunted her teeth...

12 rubbed at the stumpy, fleshy fingertips folornly. Her footsteps were short and light - usually, she'd try to take long, purposeful strides to avoid the pain but months of ankle-shackles made her muscles ache if she even attempted to stretch out fully. Besides, at her peak, she'd probably overtake Lucien...well, her -peak-, she couldn't remember a time when she was properly health-

12 gasped, tripped on the cobbles and was sent sprawling to the floor at the clap of thunder that rolled through the city. Her burlap sacking dress was thrown in a very revealing position for the briefest of moments as she gathered herself, still trembling, and pushed herself into a kneeling and apologetic position as swiftly as possible before Lucian decided to forcefully kick her for her clumsiness. 12 waited for a few seconds until she was certain, absolutely certain, that she wasn't about to get reprimanded for her error. Then she stood up and continued following.

Lucien attempted small-talk with 12, starting with a statement she knew far too well; 'I've never seen something like you before', or 'my, you're different, aren't you?' or 'Ain't never done seen one of yer pigeon-folk round these here parts, girlie', depending on the location and the type of person. It became so old to her so quickly that she didn't even grace the statement with a reply.

Then Lucien asked about her name, and 12 faultered in her steps. Names were a very precious thing; she knew her name very well, she knew how to pronounce it even after all of these years, and she kept it dutifully clutched close to her heart. That was the name of the half-harpy woman from Sudal, not the slave in...in...where was she? Cobbletown? It certainly seemed like a suitable temporary name for the location. 12 waited a little longer in silence, long enough for Lucien to elaborate and ask her how she ended up becoming enslaved.

Ah, poor Lucien, if there was anything that over a decade's 'voluntary' work in the slavery business taught you, it was to find loopholes in questions to keep what little scraps of privacy you still had left. Name first, questions later. [i]"Twuh-....tweeelve."[/i] replied 12, in a distinctly foreign mash-up of a variety of accents; she seemed to be trying to accommodate herself to Lucien's style of talking for better understanding. [i]"Got sold to Sir,"[/i] elaborated 12. Technically, it was the right answer in the briefest amount of syllables possible.