RPlog:Punishment for the Prodigal

The room is dark, stifling with trapped heat, but comfortable at least. A bed is in the center, a bathroom door open to reveal the necessary facilities. But the room is bare of decoration. Indeed, spartan is the word for the day ... and no windows. No escape.

Contents: Ylsa Obvious exits: Out

Standing in a corner of the room, hidden completely by the darkness and shadows, Mephisto stands watching. Waiting. It was a bungled job, even if they did recover the tart. A waste of effort and men, even if they deserved to die due to their negligence and incompetence. Now they are forced to hide underground from the Imperials, like desert worms hide the hot Tattooine suns. It's pathetic. To be reduced to this by this chit. Eyes narrow, the smile widening to display finely pointed teeth. But she'll pay for her indiscretions. And she thought she knew what it was to be hurt. She'll learn. And Mephisto will enjoy giving her the lesson.

Mephisto(#19Pc) A tall man, finely muscled and with a body familiar with both hard and violent work, Mephisto is the kind of figure that sends most intelligent beings cowering in doorways. He's not -quite- human ... eyes are solid black to match his long black hair, and there have been ... modifications ... made to his body. Improvements that make him stronger, more flexible ... a more efficient fighting and killing machine. His face seems to be forever stretched into a darkly unpleasant smile. Wearing a dark cloak about his frame he seems unperturbed by the heat. It seems the man is unperturbed by most things.

Sprawled on the bed in the same diagonal position in which she had been tossed, Ylsa is on her face and masked by the golden curtain of her tousled blonde hair. One arm dangles off the bed, her bare feet poking off the other side; upon first glance she may in fact appear dead. But after hours of deep unconsciousness she stirs, emitting a low, moaning sound that illustrates the residual discomfort from the stun grenade (and successive narcotic) responsible for her state.

The smile widens in pleasure, but the dark brooding being waits. He wants her to realize where she is ... remember what happened. He wants to watch the dawning of horror to bloom across her face before he presents her with himself.

A few syllables follow, thickened and unintelligible, perhaps in her native language, then the former princess leverages herself upward by pressing downward on her one palm. The elbow buckles, but now, at least, she is on her back. Those aqueous blue eyes flutter open again as she gazes above her at the austere environment, then, tentatively, she mumbles, "Paul?"

There is a deep urge to laugh, to allow his booming mirth to echo about the room, confirming her worst fears. But Mephisto resists, will power a simple thing to exercise when the rewards make it worth it.

After a few seconds of reorientation, Ylsa manages to sit upright on that one elbow, half her face curtained off by her mangled hair. Its sheen is nevertheless undaunted by the room's dimness and is a rare spot of brightness in the otherwise shadowy place. And then, of course, comes awareness. And fear, a cold hand gripping her heart and squeezing it tight.

"Sleeping beauty," whispers a darkly mocking voice. "Or should I say prodigal daughter? So good of you to come back home where you belong." He remains in the shadows, his voice echoing lightly, menacingly through the room, his position not easily fixed.

Ylsa whirls, tries to get her feet under her, and ends up stumbling to one knee, hand braced against the cot. That fear in her gaze is fanned into wild terror as she frenetically studies the shadows, dizzy and disoriented again thanks to the heavy dosage of drugs that were used to spirit her away.

Stepping away from the shadows, Mephisto approaches Ylsa with slow ominous steps, a long needle held in one hand. He wants her cognizant of every detail. He says nothing. Ylsa's untutored grace is entirely absent as she scuttles backward, focus on the glimmer of silver in the man's hand. "Mephisto..." She swallows, voice shattering on his name, and stops her backward regression only when her back encounters the wall. Once halted, she stares this way and that, trying to find an exit or other means of escape. "Ullo will be furious with you."

"Ullo approved this," he rasps darkly, the needle approaching her arm. "Now hold still and take your medicine like a good little girl," he laughs, the rumbling sound an unpleasant mockery of what is normally a joyous sound.

Biting her lip to quell its quiver, Ylsa inhales and exhales several times before proclaiming boldly, "Do not you even dare approach me. I will see Ullo and no one else."

Shaking his head slowly in denial to her request, Mephisto murmurs, "I'm here to break you first." And with that one hand goes flying up, crashing against her temple in an expert move that causes much pain but will leave little physical damage. It's a blow hard enough to knock her off her feet and daze her, but little else. A love tap really.

Ylsa, after bouncing off of the wall behind her, slithers to the floor and lies there, half- supine and dazed. She shakes her head and, in a low hiss, flings a T'leviaan insult at the brute. "You...do not...dare," she quavers, anger overlaying her fear, at least on the surface.

One arm is grabbed, the needle plunged past the surface skin with little prelude. The clarifier works quickly, enzymes reacting with the drugs in her system, negating their effects and leaving Ylsa in full control of her faculties and body. "I don't just dare," he hisses, dragging her up and pressing his body against hers. "I revel in this. You need to be taught a lesson. I am your teacher. I know you to be an apt pupil," he hisses, one hand shifting to the opening of Paul's robe. "I expect a whore to be experienced, but this time the trick is going to teach you a well overdue lesson in humility and obedience."

Martial arts were part of Ylsa's training ... but then, Mephisto likely knows that. Little about her is unknown with Ullo's heinous minions. She twists away from her captor, eyes and nostrils flared wide open, and aims her stiffened finger toward his throat.

Pining her against the wall with his muscled frame, her hands are easily captured and held, first by both of his and then by one. His mouth descends to her long length of throat. "The more you fight, the more I'll hurt you," he promises, the scrape of his filed pointed teeth against her jugular punctuation to his threat. "Not that I won't hurt you anyway ... it's all a question of degrees though yes?" His free hand presses past the robe to painfully grasp one breast. "Besides ... there's nowhere to run to ... no one to help you. I wasn't there," he confesses with a lascivious lick, "but I heard that no one left on board was alive ..."

Ylsa's muscles stiffen in reaction to the implied assault and the stated fact of the attack's aftermath: no one left on board alive? No one? At all? Her heart falls, nearly stopping, breath catching in her throat even as the hideous man's lips and tongue caress it. "You lie," she snarls, giving her arms and body a violent jerk. "You -lie-."

Drawing back from her Mephisto slams his fist into her stomach before tossing her across the room. Hard. "I do not lie ... it was reported that anyone left on board after you had been removed was either dead or made to be so." He strides over to her, kicking the downed woman hard in the small of her back before barking, "Manners bitch. Learn them else I snap you in half for the fun of it." That malicious little smile never leaves his lips, even though his voice is dark with repressed anger.

The blow to her midsection robs her of breath before he hurls her toward the far wall. Stunned, she lies against the ground on her side, then cries out, and piercingly so, as his boot connects with her spine. Sobbing, she rolls away, at a loss as to which part of her aching form to clutch.

Shaking his head, one hand roughly reaches down to yank Ylsa up, her dead weight straining the shoulder joint. "Pathetic ... you've grown soft Ylsa ... used to be you could practically spar with me." Holding her upright he grabs the robe with one hand and tears it from her form, the heavy fabric ripping under the grip of his hands and the power of his pull. He starts to drag her toward the bed, muttering, "It's about time somewhat dominated you properly ... put you in your place once and for all."

A mental division occurs in Ylsa, the part of her horrified and pained by what was happening suborned by the realization Mephisto was not lying to her, that Paul - her Paul, her beloved Corellian - was dead. It dulls her senses, reducing the stinging discomfort of his yank and distancing her from what is to transpire. Then, abruptly and without warning, a fury flares within her and inspires her to strike at him, connecting with the sensitive flesh just below his sternum. "Let...me...GO," she screeches imperiously, hate oozing forth.

There is a dull cough, then a low growl, the smile widening to either a grin or a grimace. One hand reaches up to wrap it's fingers about her throat, squeezing off her supply of oxygen as he continues to drag her toward the bed. "You belong to me now ... and I will do with you as I like, whore." While he strangles her with one hand, the other strokes across her body lewdly, touching where her lover Paul has often touched. But this hand is cruel and painful in it's loving attention, pain not brought on by passion gone wild, but by pleasure in the distribution of discomfort.

As she pales, then reddens with the lack of air passage to her lungs, Ylsa grasps his wrist with both hands and twists, panic settling in as her body demands the oxygen it needs. Out flashes her bare foot, angling toward his kneecap with intent to break his balance.

He steps aside, her foot catching his shin, causing the hand at her throat to tighten sharply. In turn he hammers his free fist into a sensitive nerve bundle at her offending legs kneecap, the pain radiating up her body like a flame. "Soft," he growls in disgust. "It isn't even going to be fun ... not like it used to be." He shoves her backward onto the bed, oxygen finally allowed to pass through her lips.

The breath whooshes into lungs starving, screaming, for air in the form of a stifled gasp as she bends in reaction to this latest savagery. Once on the bed, however, she rolls, her only thought to escape him and recover long enough to figure a way out of this hellhole.

As she flees the bed, that laugh ... that all encompassing, dreadful, ominous laugh shatters the air about her. It's message is clear. Run all you like ... there's no where to hide. "Maybe this -will- be fun," he muses aloud to Ylsa, and soft clink in his hand betraying a possible weapon, the cloak hiding what is truly grasped therein. He stalks her like prey, slowly, determinedly ... assured of the success of his kill as if she were a maimed deer haplessly trying to flee.

Ylsa falls into a defensive stance that may indeed appear ludicrous thanks to her unclothed state and her slender, sensual frame, but her eyes mean business. Instilling in her a hatred that life with Paul had dulled, Mephisto is, purposefully or not, helping her recover her old self with alacrity and find ample reason to struggle.

He leaps out at her, almost playfully, one foot feinting toward her vulnerable knee while the opposite hand cuffs her hard across the cheek before darting back and away. His cape growing to be an annoyance, he reaches up with one hand to release it, the black fabric slithering to the ground silently. Clearly the man relishes a good fight. A good fight with a naked woman whom he intends to have doesn't suck either.

The instant his cape occupies a sliver of his attention, Ylsa tucks, rolls, and tumbles toward the door, launching to her feet and grabbing at the mechanism in one smooth movement. It is locked, though she tests the lock's fortitude with several sharp yanks and pulls.

A foot, powered by a running leap, slams into the fragile small of her back, slamming her in turn against the hard door that she struggles so futilely with. Grabbing her by the hair Mephisto drags Ylsa back into the room tsking sadly and deliberately offering her his "unprotected" back. "Shame on you for thinking it would be so easy."

Ylsa's bare feet fail to find purchase as she flails about, dangling from his tight handhold. Her hands reach anxiously for the place she expects to find a weapon, around his waistband, even as tears form in her eyes thanks to the pain of having her hair so misused.

Her hands glance off of a sheath before she is sharply jerked upright facing her tormentor. Pulling the blade free Mephisto flicks it before her gaze, rasping in an almost loving voice, "Want this?" He then proceeds to slither the blade along the pale delicate lines of her body, his eyes following the gleaming metal as it strokes her skin. "Pretty figure like yours just begs to be marked." The blade rises, scraping cross her throat where violent bruises are forming despite the care he took with earlier blows to leave her flesh unmarred. He grins ferally, the sharp teeth making him look all the more like a dangerous predatory animal. "Bruises are so ... temporary," he purrs darkly, the blade scraping down between her breasts, over her belly, threatening lower and more tender flesh.

Ylsa's lips part, breath hissing in and out between clenched teeth as she follows the descent of Mephisto's blade toward her nether regions. Glinting malevolently, the knife is scant inches away from parts of her body that would perhaps never recover from a stab wound, so she steels herself and whispers, "You never could face me on equal terms, Mephisto. Drop the blade and we will see what transpires...."

Chuckling darkly, he rasps back, "Oh but I am so much more your match. Still, I wasn't planning on marking you so severely ... I do believe Ullo would draw the line there. Careful," he cautions her, "You wouldn't want me to slip, now would you?"

Ylsa whimpers before she can catch the sound as it slips away from those parted lips. She moistens them and, struggling to contain her welling fears, repeats entreatingly, "Put down the knife, Mephisto. I know what you desire and it is not this. Remind me of how much my match you can be. Remind me."

He removes the blade raising it. "Don't flatter yourself," he warns lightly. "It is your fear and submission that pleases me, not your sex or your body." The knife is suddenly flicked before her gaze, flying up to embed itself into the ceiling. "Why offer you temptation?" he queries, the pull on her hair dragging her to the bed. "But I do tire of playing with you ... better we just end it yes? I take and you submit. A familiar story that we have played, no?"

A sinking feeling hollows out her heart as Ylsa remembers in too vivid detail, with too much clarity, the endings of their previous meetings. Others of Ullo's miscreant underlings could be cajoled, avoided, eluded, ignored...but not this brute. While he hauls her to the bed she awaits her chance for a final escape attempt, wondering idly if she can reach the discarded weapon...or whether she should limit the pain and let him have his small victory.

Pulling out a pair of manacles, Mephisto reaches for Ylsa's hands. He is both pleased and disappointed. She appears to be broken, the way she allows herself to be hauled about, her helpless cry earlier. But the terror wasn't enough. He thought she would fight more or plead more. Perhaps tossing the knife away was a mistake. He considers the cuffs for a moment with a nasty grin. Then again, time enough for him to retrieve it. Maybe Ullo wouldn't notice a few cuts. They could have been gotten in the initial attack, no? The urge to carve his initials in her will have to wait for another day ... when Ullo finally tires of the high maintenance slut.

His contemplation wins her a second's inattentiveness, and toward his face flies her elbow, a Sestooine-style assault aimed at breaking the nose and perhaps driving it into the cranial cavity.

There is a cracking sound, the man's lustful daydreaming allowing her attack to slip past his defenses, but the roar of rage clearly indicates that her objective was off slightly. His hand smashes into her jaw, rocking her up and back before he kicks her legs out from beneath her. And then, the rage upon him, he pummels her while she is down, viscous kicks targeting tender areas of her body - spine, belly, knees, crotch. He doesn't give her leave till each blow cracks from her a cry of agony.

She retaliates initially, blocking what she can, striking back as she may, but her life at Paul's side -has- softened her. She is out of practice and more vulnerable than when Ullo held her under his oppressive thumb, and soon his kicks and blows elicit cry after groan after gasp of pain, leaving her cowering and sobbing in a ball against the floor.

As she lies there huddled, Mephisto takes a moment to retrieve his blade, the bed used as a springboard for those altered limbs to leap up gracefully, plucking the knife from the ceiling. He lands heavily, turning to face Ylsa as she lies in a heap on the floor. He kicks her lightly across the temple, enough to hurt, enough to daze, but not enough to take her out. Clothing his pulled away, off ... just enough to release his lust, the rage and violence sufficient to make him hard. Dropping to the ground, holding the blade to her throat, he growls, "You always had to have it the hard way, didn't you bitch." Blood from his broken nose leaks down upon her face like tears. "When Ullo tires of you, I'm going to brand you like a bantha herder."

Tears sting Ylsa's eyes, blurring her vision, and she shrinks away from her display of fear as much as from what is causing it. The press of cold steel against her throat is enough to quell her desires to fight, and with shame mottling her bruised features, she whispers brokenly, "Please...not this, not now, not again. You have made your point, Mephisto. You win. I surrender. Please...."

An inevitable event later ...

The blade presses against her sore throat, Mephisto lifting off of her only fractionally. The blade slithers over her flesh to rest upon one breast, the point of it just starting to break the skin when a cavernously low voice rumbles in Huttesse, "Enough."

Ullo's intervention both assuages and unnerves Ylsa, who opens her eyes fractionally to try to locate the place from which her former employee is speaking.

Sick and twisted, Mephisto is also obedient to his Lord, if a little reluctantly so. He draws himself off of Ylsa, a grimace of pleasure warping his features. "Was it good for you too?" he rasps cruelly. But the Hutt's voice speaks again, more intently, "Mephisto ... enough. I have seen your actions and have learned much. Report for punishment. You have taken liberties that I did -not- sanction. Report .... now." The man does not look pleased, and if he had his way, he would take out his displeasure further upon the woman at his feet. But they are being watched, so all he offers Ylsa is a vile smile before gathering up his belongings with pride and ease, heading to the door which clicks open for him.

Naked, excruciatingly vulnerable, and chilled in her huddled posture on the floor, Ylsa strains to reach the blanket on the bed and, wincing from countless contusions and bruises, she wrests the cloth free and drags it across her body. Teeth clench against the chattering as a cold shiver of fear races down her spine, reminder of what Ullo allowed, of what may have happened to Paul, of what may yet happen to her. Mustering her courage, she wraps herself in the blanket and tries to look fearless and unrepentant.

The door clicks again, this time admitting an unfamiliar Twi'lek into the room. His pale skin gleams with a sickly sort of pallor as he makes his way toward Ylsa carrying a medium sized case.

"No..." Ylsa gets her feet under her, but as soon as she puts weight on one knee it collapses, thanks to the lingering effects of Mephisto's blows. "Ullo, no more!"

There is no reply from her master ... apparently he has given her all the attention she deserves ... for the moment. The Twi'lek murmurs softly, "Rest easy, I'm here to heal, not hurt." He sets his case on the bed before reaching down to catch Ylsa under her arms. "However, do not fight me. There is no where to go, and while my ... appetites ... do not mimic your latest companion," he mutters with distaste, "I -am- well aquainted with human physiognomy and can hurt you quite badly if you give me cause to."

The fight is squelched for now, however, and Ylsa dangles in the Twi'lek's arms until she is lowered onto the bed. Pain flares from the oddest and most tender of spots even unmoving as she is, and, eyes shuttered against the light in the room, she silently assents to do his bidding.

Damaged is assessed thoughtfully and bacta patches applied to her back, stomach, and knee before she is gently laid down. Her throat cut is sealed and patched as well, a soft sucking sound which is as close as a Twi'lek comes to saying "tsk tsk" the only commentary he offers.

Ashamed both of how deeply his wounds have carved into her soul and how the Twi'lek intends to examine her, Ylsa closes her eyes all the more tightly and, in the healer's native language, breathes, "Please do not...I wish a bath. Ask Ullo for me?"

The head tails swish lightly from side to side, but if the Twi'lek is surprised at her knowledge of his language, he does not indicate it. Laying a suprisingly supportive and kindly hand at her brow, he replies firmly but softly, "All in time ... your needs will be met. Right now there is much damage that requires repair. He strokes her hair, much like one might pet the coat of a wounded animal. "Healing first, then you may cleanse yourself."

His gentleness is a balm on raw nerves, and her gratitude for such treatment is tremulously palpable. As he probes and touches, unintentionally angering flesh already ill-treated, she bites back tears and reminds herself with harshness that she has weathered Mephisto's attentions before. And, unbidden, an image of Paul flares into her consciousness to remind her that he may very well be dead, and the tears threaten anew. A sudden, piercing desire to suffer or die asserts itself, and, clenching her fingers into tight little balls, she repeats, "Leave me...please don't. Just...leave me."

"Don't be such a child," he remonstrates her in a surprisingly gentle voice. "Besides," he notes, laying a bacta patches upon her exposed injuries, "I have my orders. You are to be healed ... not a mark showing." Turning to glance over at her, he notes with a touch of superiority, "You should be honored ... I am Lord Ullo's chief medical advisor."

Ylsa's muscles twitch. "I am not a child," she responds icily, "and do not presume to know how I feel in this humiliating situation." Then, releasing a long held breath, she sinks against the cushions and closes her eyes once more.

Frowning with a degree of displeasure, the Twi'lek slowly rises. "Very well ... I am finished here - I suggest you leave everything where I have put it. Lord Ullo will be more displeased with you than with me should you not heed my warnings. Ilyana will be here in an hour to tend to your bath and your needs." There is no other indication that the Twi'lek has left Ylsa to her privacy and humiliation other than the soft click of the door locking behind him.

Ylsa's features, battered and bruised as they are, twist in the precursor to tears before her fingers clench all the tighter and her teeth grit. _I will not while he watches, I will not, I will not_, she thinks tensely, though her muscles quiver from the strain of maintaining some self-control. For minutes she lies there in such a repose, her lissome and unadorned figure open for observation, then, as tension slowly bleeds from those sinews she whispers, "Ullo...speak to me. We will talk, master. Speak to me."

Silence and stifling heat adorns the room, weariness a palpable being weighing heavily upon each of Ylsa's limbs.

Ylsa, sitting up, repeats stiffly, "I know you watch or someone is watching. You need me, you want me. Speak with me."

Perhaps another lesson that Ylsa requires learning is patience. No one heeds her call or her demands. Her voice rings weakly through the rooms atmosphere, almost mocking her with the feebleness of her request. She is told with no words, but in no uncertain terms, just how helpless and trapped she is.

Ylsa, left to do the one thing she ought to do, lies back again, draws the blanket across her, and, closing her eyes, wills herself to rest.

Sheer exhaustion takes Ylsa out, but the slight click of the lock on the door is sufficient to wake her. There are slow soft, almost tentative steps as someone or something approaches the bed quietly.

Jarred by the sound of the door's lock and the steps, Ylsa tenses, then opens her eyes as awareness floods her consciousness. While she remains prone, she is prepared for flight or fight.

The diminutive figure of a female human draws into visual range, her skin a rich red brown, eyes nearly black to match her wild mane of black hair. "Mistress?" she nearly whispers, her eyes flickering over Ylsa's abused form almost fearfully, afraid to disturb the sleeping woman.

The timid nature of her visitor and the lack of danger surrounding her relaxes Ylsa, who, sitting up, keeps herself covered by the bedclothes. "You are Ilyana?" murmurs the blonde, surprised that she has recalled that detail.

"Yes mistress," she replies readily, her dark eyes sparkling with pleasure and a small smile curling her lips. In her arms are several gowns which she sets down on the end of the bed. Dark eyes flicker about the room, resting on nothing in particular, but unable to look at Ylsa directly. "I'm your personal servant ... I have orders from the Gracious Lord Ullo to bathe and dress you for an audience."

Ylsa's eyes narrow distrustfully as she casts a hurried glance about the room, then on the meek maiden attending her. "I need no personal servant," she begins, then, tentatively pushing upwards to rise, adds, "A bath would be well-received, my dear. Thank you."

The downcast fearful look at Ylsa's dismissal rises some when a task is delegated. "Yes mistress," he murmurs softly, eyes downcast, and hurries herself into the bathroom. The sound of water is soon heard as the girl pulls out bottles that she was given. Scented oils are poured into the water as she stirs it in with her hand. "Is there anything else I can bring you mistress?" she calls out from the bath.

Ylsa's muscles complain, and loudly so, as she moves toward the bathroom and holds the jamb for support. The aroma of the oils assaults her nostrils, then soothes her beyond words. "Tea, perhaps."

Stepping back after testing the water, Ilyana offers Ylsa one of her hands for support, her gaze averted as she murmurs, "Yes m'lady ... any particular kind? Something to eat?" She is an attractive creature, very slight of build and height, almost fey. Her over large eyes are fringed with thick black lashes, her mouth a rosebud. She must be very young, but clearly no longer a child. The small slips of fabric that adorn her breasts and hips leave little to the imagination.

Ylsa takes the proffered hand and steps into the water without delay, an unbidden sigh slipping away from her as the bath's heat and comfort embrace her. The notion of food has alarmingly negative results in Ylsa's body, so to that and the other question she shakes her head and further sinks into the tub, relief evidenced on her features.

Ilyana takes her leave, allowing Ylsa a moment of privacy in which to soak and relax. Within a short period of time though she returns, peeking her head through the door. "Mistress? Would you like tea after your bath or during? Would you like to me wash your back for you?"

A pause. Ylsa could be asleep for all Ilyana knows, but eventually she answers drowsily, "Bring the tea now, and yes, wash my back for me. And my hair." To the command, issued quietly, the blonde adds a touch of regal command.

She doesn't see the grateful smile, only hears the soft pad of feet retreating to fetch the tea and then returning. The air is scented with a gentle infusion of flower and fruit as the tea is poured and honey added. The cup is delicately placed upon the wide tub wall for her mistress' pleasure. After a moment the heavy weight of wet hair is lift and pressed to one side, a lathered washcloth rubbing cross Ylsa's back in soothing circular strokes.

_Paul is dead. Paul is dead._ The words ring through Ylsa's awareness like a funereal litany, and against them she closes her eyes and her heart to boot. _I will be what I was before; it is my destiny._ When she can trust her voice, the former princess asks, lifting the cup of tea, "What else did Ullo say?"

"Mistress?" Ilyana queries uncertainly, not knowing what it is that the blonde woman under her care desires to know.

"What did he say about my treatment?" Ylsa reiterates, stretching her back uncertainly as her mind presses back the horrific image of Paul's implied suffering.

"Only that I am to serve you and supply your needs. To bath and dress you and bring you to his audience." Her head ducks slightly, but her hands continue their surprisingly strong and restorative massage as she washes Ylsa's back thoroughly. "He will tell you his reasons and demand your answers when he sees you," she murmurs, as if repeating something she was told to say. There is a moment of quiet, the girl struggling with her desire to offer sympathy and her role as servant. In the end she bites her lip and holds her tongue.

Ylsa releases a long, deep breath and, stretches her spine again, hears tension released in three successive snapping sounds. "I am grateful for your nearness," she breathes, "but do not fear for me. Ullo would not harm me beyond what I have already suffered." "No mistress," she agrees, though it is a tentative and unconvinced reply as she pours water over Ylsa's hair before massaging scented soap into the long tresses.

Ylsa, the last tension draining away, then queries, "How did you come to serve Ullo, child?"

"I was purchased off the streets a few months ago, mistress," Ilyana admits almost brightly. She raises up cups of water, pouring the fresh soothing hot water over Ylsa's hair, chasing away the foam. An herbal conditioner is then soothed into the blond length, careful attention given to the ends. "I have been fortunate to have grown in his favor recently," she murmurs shyly.

Ylsa turns, eloquent blue eyes boring a hole in Ilyana's visage. "Purchased off the streets. You were born a slave, then?" Interesting how she is oblivious to this lavish attention: deep down inside, Ylsa may even expect such treatment.

Shaking her head, Ilyana confesses, "No m'lady ... just poor. But my life here is more than it could have ever been on the streets of Mos Eisley." The young woman may have only been a servant ... or slave, for a few months, but she has learned well her position. Anyone she serves must be due her attentions.

Ylsa's fingers trail across Ilyana's cheek, touch gentle. "How many Standard years have you?"

Surprised at the gesture, the young woman does not flinch, though her eyes do widen. "Ten and six, m'lady," she whispers.

Sixteen. Younger, even, than Ylsa when the Imperials came and Ullo took her. Literally. "You deserve better."

Shaking her head in denial, Ilyana draws back shaking her head. "No m'lady," she bursts out before her eyes widen in horror at her outspokenness. Eyes dropping to the floor she huddles next to the tub whispering, "Forgive me mistress!"

Ylsa is accustomed to the manners in which servants should behave and appreciates why Ilyana is appalled at her statement, so, resting a hand on the girl's head, she murmurs, "Do not carry on so, child...simply say no such things near your...near Ullo."

Raising her gaze, shocked at the familiar use of her masters name, Ilyana shakes her head again, unwilling to risk opening her mouth again. Her eyes flicker uncomfortably, falling to the safety of the floor. Her body is tensed, as if expecting a blow ... if not several.

An anger, righteous and indignant, rises in Ylsa as she comprehends - and all too well - why the girl is cringing. "Here now...you have nothing to fear from me. And the conditioner is drying in my hair, Ilyana."

Bobbing her head a touch frantically, despite Ylsa's assurances, Ilyana darts back to the lady's side. Water is raised, the condition rinsed away gently. "Yes mistress," she burbles as she finishes her duty.

Ylsa lets go a long breath and, keeping her voice gentle, asks, "Do you know what is to become of me?"

"No mistress," she whispers, chastened. "Nothing bad ... Lord Ullo prizes you .... no further harm will come to you if ... if you are obedient," she mumbles, walking a fine line between property and owner.

_Nothing bad. Nothing beyond being beaten and raped by that bastard Mephisto. Nothing beyond Paul's -- no. NO._ Ylsa presses the heels of her hand to her eyes and mumbles, "What does he intend for the audience?"

Sitting back on her heels, hands pressed into her lap, Ilyana keeps her attention on them. "It isn't my place to know the Masters mind ... he ... what ... happened. That was punishment. He will tell you why he allowed it ... and how you can avoid such ... punishments ... in the future. And he has ... questions." Her face, despite her dark coloring, is touched with red.

Ylsa raises her head and looks keenly at Ilyana while inquiring, "What questions?"

Dark eyes lift, meet, and scurry away like a threatened womprat. "Why did you leave?" It's hard to say if she poses the question because that is what Ullo will ask, because she wishes to know herself, or both.

That is a question Ylsa prefers not to answer and therefore does not, concentrating instead on rinsing her face. The bruises still ache beneath the medication she received, and with a frown she realizes she is going to be marked for a few days longer.

The girl sits quietly, awaiting orders one way or the other, her shoulders slumped.

"My hair will want combing," the blonde finally instructs, "and you ought not slouch. You are terribly pretty."

Her shoulder straighten obediently, a bland smile plastered across her lips, but not her eyes. Nodding Ilyana picks up a comb and slowly, methodically, works out the tangles in Ylsa's hair. Her attention upon her task is complete, saving her from having to look anywhere else or say anything.

Ylsa chews on her lip, her own desperation and pain forgotten momentarily as the broken spirit of this poor girl worms its way into her conscience's foremost thoughts. That is a matter for later, however, after she can win Ilyana's trust. And with a start, Ylsa realizes she is accepting and planning for a prolonged stay with Ullo. Her stomach twists at the thought of Paul, and, to herself, she whispers in T'leviaan, "Live, ammadto, and come for me. Live...please, gods and goddesses, let him live."

The girls gaze rises slowly, eyes dark and thoughtful as she hears the elegant words pierce the air. While the translation is lost upon her untutored ears, she cannot help but respond to the cry from Ylsa's soul that weighs upon each syllable. Her hands pause for a moment in their duties, but a moment only before she pull the comb flawlessly through Ylsa's hair. "Finished mistress," she offers, her hands dropping once again to her lap.

Ylsa turns again and curls her fingers beneath Ilyana's chin, lifting her countenance for admiration. Then, after relinquishing her hold, she holds her hand out for a towel and remarks, "I shall need a gown..."

Her gaze drops low as she is examined, knowing she is property and yet finding little pleasure in that fact at the moment. Once freed she gathers a towel, wrapping up her mistresses hair tenderly before gathering another to dry the long pale figure. A robe is fetched ... not the green one she wore before, but a plush snow white one. A bold choice on this dusty desert planet. She helps Ylsa on with it before following her out of the bath. She spreads out the gowns on the bed for Ylsa to choose from, displaying each attractively. All three gowns are beautiful, with flowing draping lines and sleek fabrics.

Ylsa fingers one in radiant red, the color Ullo most often desired for her, and shuns it for a bare-armed creation in creamy silk, then, after a thought, returns to the red attire. "This one...do you think, yes?"

Her gaze rises slowly, examining the two dresses before nodding in agreement. "It is Lord Ullo's favorite color," she confirms without realizing it. "It will also cover your bruises better, m'lady," she notices with a discerning eye.

Ylsa inhales, exhales, inhales, sighs. "Indeed," she concurs mildly, doffing her robe to draw the well-tailored gown over her head. Involuntarily she winces, the soreness not nearly gone from her body. "Have I any cosmetics?"

"Yes mistress," replies Ilyana as she moves to retrieve them. "If you like, I can apply them and style your hair for you?" She has come to realize that in some ways her new mistress is used to being pampered, and in others that she is decidedly independent. No longer certain of her duties, she finds herself asking instead of assuming.

"I would prefer to look as fetching as I can manage when Ullo bids me join him," Ylsa says by way of a response as she seats herself on the edge of the bed. She studies the younger female's movements with a certain fascination and remembrance, then asks, "Have you heard of anyone called Paul, Ilyana?"

The first comment leaves the girl stalled ... uncertain if her mistress doubts her talents and therefore wishes to do her own makeup ... or wishes not to exert herself and possibly ruin her efforts, and therefore Ilyana -should- attend her. She makes up for her misunderstanding by coming to the bed, setting the box of cosmetics there and slowly opening various containers. If Ylsa is intent on doing everything herself, then she will pick up the various cosmetics and begin applying them. Sound logic. So engrossed in this puzzle, she almost doesn't catch the second question and so unknowingly murmurs, "No mistress, lest you mean the man they are looking for ..."

Ylsa stiffens a bit and, leaving the bits and pieces alone and awaiting their application, repeats, "The man they are looking for? What man? What man?"

Eyes widening fractionally, Ilyana draws back alarmed. "I do not know who mistress ... they've mentioned no name, I ... I .." There is the unpleasant realization that perhaps she has said something she ought not to have. The palace had been buzzing in response to Ullo's anger and demands. _Find him! I want him here now!_ She slips to her knees nervously. She had never seen her Master so enraged before.

Hope surges. Ylsa has no way of knowing the identity of whomever Ullo seeks, but bearing in mind her recent capture and Paul's association with her, she has hope and clings to it. "Never mind, child, never mind," she eventually whispers, soothingly and reassuringly. "Can you make me beautiful for our master?"

"Yes," she whispers, gathering up combs and brushes. She settles herself behind Ylsa, patiently twisting her hair into loops and braids and coiling them elaborately and attractively. After finishing, she assists Ylsa into her gown, doing up small catches and scarves before carefully applying makeup to any injuries still blatant enough to show themselves.

Ylsa rises and smoothes away the folds in her gown until it lies across her as it should. She cannot quell the leaps her heart is making and nearly quivers in anticipation. But the transformation is complete: what stands before Ilyana now is a bona fide princess, cool and as perfect as marble carved by a master.

"The master is sure to regret he is not human," murmurs the servant quietly, her eyes taking in Ylsa's beauty with delight and awe. "Shall I call for your escort?"

Ylsa considers her mood, the Hutt's probable mood, and the possibilities. "Yes," she then answers decisively. "Call for them."

Rising up silently, Ilyana runs lightly to the door, which opens to her. A moment later a large trandoshan, impeccably dressed in professional and well attended armor steps in. He strides across the room, offer Ylsa his arm graciously, though saying nothing.

Ylsa gives Ilyana a reassuring glance before slipping her hand about the Trandoshan's arm. Head uplifting, princessly pride billowing in every movement, she departs in full command of her self-possession and confidence.

They move down the hall, plush carpet greeting their feet as fine tapestries and sculptures greet their sight. Ilyana follows discreetly in the wake of the pair, and there seem few others around ... that is, until they enter the main throne room at the end of the hall. Filled with beings of every kind and species, Ullo still holds centerstage at the end of a long runner of carpet - red. The Trandoshan leads Ylsa down the center, conversations stopping as creatures turn to look and wonder. It's a long walk, and at the end on a sumptuous throne Ullo reclines almost elegantly, his tail end swishing idly from side to side, his heavy lidded gaze watching the approach with seemingly little interest as he draws deeply from the hooka beside him.

Ylsa's approach is with the dignity and presence of royalty; she dredges up ever last speck of charisma and charm and grace to make certain she draws attention and admiration from those about her. Many are known to her, some have been intimate with her, and the place itself is certainly very familiar, so, holding a tight rein on any fears and keeping the candle of hope - in the guise of Paul's possible safety - firmly before her mind's eye, she stops before Ullo's throne and bows deeply.

The Trandoshan bows as well before stepping aside and Ilyana skirts around the pair to seat herself close to Ullo's tail. One hand reaches out tentatively to pat it soothingly, and the Hutt releases a soft low sound of pleasure, the tails motion settling into stillness. Picking up a scepter, Ullo cracks it hard upon the stone at the base of his throne, the conversations about him picking up once again as the order to resume has apparently been given. Gesturing to a large floor pillow near his divan, Ullo grunts politely to Ylsa, indicating that she should sit there by his side. He pays her little heed otherwise, his slitted gaze lifting once again to his populace, scanning the group thoughtfully, his features impassive and betraying nothing. A soft grunt from him again brings a servant to his side. She reaches into a bowl, plucking out a red-gold fish which struggles furiously. Suddenly with two blades in her hand she cuts it into pieces with precision and speed before offering them one at a time to Ullo. It is clear, by the motion of the pieces, that somehow the creature is still alive even though it has been dissected ... and now eaten.

Ylsa props herself on the pillow and arranges her limbs so that the most skin is shown, the posture alluring. She keeps silent and awaits Ullo's pleasure and command, trying to seem at ease and even at home despite the rippling realization he might just have her killed.

"So ... Ylsa," he murmurs in guttural Huttese as he finishes his snack. "So good to have you home again." Marmalade eyes roll over to consider her for a moment. "You look well ... a little softer, but well. I have to admit, I am very disappointed in you." There is a heavy exhale, the tail flicking again from side to side, a subtle display of annoyance. "-Very- disappointed that you went on vacation without asking permission first. I say vacation because you know that if you had decided to leave my services, well, the punishment allotted you today would only be a fraction of what I would service you with." He turns his bulbous head, one eye closing to peer at her with the other. "You had a nice time, yes?"

Fingers curling into fists to repel the rising fear that Ullo's veiled threat evokes - for she knows too, too well how real those threats can be - Ylsa answers as she traces a line along his body, "I enjoyed myself, yes, but I am here now, Master."

"That's good ... it's always good to get away and do something frivolous for awhile." He nods to himself thoughtfully before turning his gaze back to Ylsa. "Now what I need you to explain to me now is why you would do such a foolish thing and make me look bad in front of my friends, employees, and servants? What have I done to earn your disrespect? I gave you shelter, risked my own hide to keep you protected from Imperial interests. Fed you, clothed you, gave you a good job with advancement arrangements should you choose to accept them. Beautiful home. Money to spend. It hurts me that you don't trust me enough to come to me when there's a problem. That you resort to stealing and running off." His voice is low, rich, well modulated, but the intensity of his waving tail has forced Ilyana to move further up or get soundly whacked. Her eyes are wide and discomfited, and in an effort to appease her master she has retrieved and bottle of scented oil which she is soothingly rubbing into his thick hide.

During the walk to the throne room, Ylsa had given ardent and arduous consideration to what she would tell her former master, to how she would behave. Her decision is evidenced now as she slips off of the pillow and kneels before him, head bowed in supplication. "Please," she says with abject humility, "please forgive me, Ullo, for my disobedience and foolishness. I was afraid, I was lost. I should not have run."

Frowning fractionally, Ullo barks sharply, "Sit up! I want an answer woman, not obsequient groveling!" If Ylsa prostrations didn't attract enough attention, Ullo's subsequent shouts do, the room falling quiet once again. With a loud crash that causes a small shudder in the room, Ullo's tail rises and falls, slamming against the stone floor before actively lashing in displeasure. "Why!"

Ylsa recoils from the violent display: if she learned anything during the term of her employment with this Hutt, it was to fear his temper. A Hutt is a volatile creature to begin with, but when his passions are roused, nothing and no one is safe. "Ullo -- Master -- please. There was no cause but my own fears and ignorance. Nothing more. Please..."

His voice drops to a low growl, pitched for her ears alone, though likely those close to the throne can hear him readily. "You will answer me woman, or you will learn the true displeasure of my wrath. You are no woolly coddled child, I want an answer to my question else I make Mephisto your new master and you will become little more than his plaything until he finally breaks his latest toy." The voice becomes a roar, nearly deafening as Ullo screams, "What possessed you to try and leave my employment you ungrateful backstabbing piece of roadkill!"

Ylsa scuttles backward a foot until she comes upon the legs of Ullo's guards. In the rushed tonality of someone blathering and blurting the truth, she sobs, "Mephisto and his men raped me against the bindings of your contract and left me for dead in my Bespin flat, and I feared for my life."

A wide smile spreads across Ullo's mouth and he raises his gaze to shower his company with a benign countenance before nodding to the guard. Ylsa feels herself lifted and settled back onto the pillow as Ullo glances down at her once again and purrs, "Now ... that wasn't so difficult, was it? Your punishment today was also a test ... Mephisto will not touch you again, nor any other employee without your express permission. That was and is our contract." One eye opens with a warning glare as he adds, "However, should I find you deceitful, thieving, or in any other way in conflict with our agreement, Mephisto and any other of my employees or business contacts will have full rights to use your body in any way that they so choose. Have I made myself quite clear?"

"Of course you have made yourself clear, Ullo, my master." Ylsa's contralto, a vibrant thing with a life of its own, undulates sensuously in the confines of her exotic accent as she dares to touch him just below his wide-spreading mouth. It is a place her fingers used to find for a familiar caress, "Tell me what I may do to content you, for your pleasure is my own."

"Hmmmph!" snorts the Hutt, not as easily fooled or flattered by titles and flowery words as some of his counterparts. He indicates the cushion once again and that she should remain in her seat. "And the data that you stole? Would you care to share with me that which you would not give to Mephisto?" The words rumble forth from with leathery skin, but at least the tail as settled into a lazy subtle swish.

Ylsa's countenance and tone betray nothing of her thoughts and emotions. Soothingly she explains, "I know nothing of data and, if I did, I would most assuredly give you everything you desired."

"Hmmmph!" he snorts again, the sound and expression upon Ullo's face a clear indication that her words are harder to swallow than a Gamorrean guard. But, for whatever reasons, he lets the issue lie, a small and not very reassuring smile curling his wide lipless mouth. Gesturing with one hand toward Ilyana, he queries instead, "How does this girl suit you? I thought you might enjoy having a servant for your needs." The young woman in question stands next to her Lord, eyes darting about uncertainly, though her smile is brave enough.

Ylsa's ocean blue gaze quits the sluggish form of the Hutt to rest on the far more aesthetically appealing figure of Ilyana; mildly she remarks, holding her hand toward the girl, "She is lovely and will suit my needs indeed, my dearest Ullo."

The girl approaches Ylsa, kneeling down next to her mistress, her head bowed. "Excellent ... due to your -eventful- return, we will need to remain here for a period of time during which I will consider how best to utilize your assets and where." He pats Ilyana on the head, murmuring, "She's a little wet behind the ears, but eager to please. She has a few other duties that she must attend to, but otherwise she is your servant to command as you please."

Ylsa, though her thoughts are tugging at her tightly clenched mental reins, settles on her pillow at Ullo's side and into a seductive repose. For all the others know, she is a queen at home again on her throne, resting with confidence beside her Lord.

The scepter cracks loudly upon the surface of the stone, gathering the attention of the congregated audience. Signaling to the Trandoshan guard, Ullo turns a dark and unforgiving gaze upon Ylsa, putting her in her place for all to see. Not as a queen or an equal, but has his most humble indentured servant, seated at his feet, not his side. "You are dismissed," he rumbles, waving a negligent hand in her direction before turning his gaze aside, as if she were nothing more than an empty plate. The guard offers Ylsa his arm formally.

Ylsa's hand curves elegantly about the proffered arm like a high-priced accessory but her eyes are dimmed. She keeps her chin high despite any inward twitching and, as she and the Trandoshan depart, gives no notice or visible evidence of the humiliation she has just suffered.

Following again in their wake, Ilyana cannot help but notice the glances and not so subtle commentary as her mistress is led from the room. Through the grand hall they are led, this time to a different room. Similar to the first in layout it is a more lavishly appointed room with various amusements available in one lounge style corner. The reason for that is made very clear when the door closes behind the Trandoshan escort with a definitive click of a sealing lock. Ilyana heads toward the wardrobe, opening it to display the attractive array of clothing made available to her mistress, murmuring, "Would m'lady care to change?"

But the girl's words and offer fall on deaf ears as Ylsa seats herself on a chair, eyes betraying inward fears. This is not going as she expected, and, with the full effects of Mephisto's brutal assault and Paul's possible demise haunting her thoughts, she needs to internalize and meditate. So, oblivious to the rest of the room, she curls up to spend time within herself.