The tiefling's words rattled around in his head and for the briefest of moments that dull expression returned. Zira wanted to be a slave, to remain in bondage to whomever held her collar. It was as though every time he went to draw a card from a deck it came up blank. "What."
He couldn't believe what he was hearing, his arms articulating in vague and unknowing way as though to non-verbally argue with her yet no words graced his lips despite the phantoms they formed. Milo wasted precious seconds and as Gulpo stirred not only himself but the crowd, that panicked expression returned. Hastily, he stashed the device away and snapped back at her. "We'll discuss this later, but I'm not kriffin' selling you. Let's get out of here-" Without a verbal command he motioned for her to get in front of him as he looked over his shoulder, pointing towards the kitchen which was bustling with occupied chefs and servants.
"Go," the vagabond hissed, not in the commanding tone of an angry master but of an anxious wreck. His previous thoughts concerning credits faded to mist, now he had a new problem, one which should never have been his choice to make in the first place. He had too many morals to sell the woman, but neither did he want a slave. Were there foundations for such things, rehabilitating the enslaved? Even if there were, how in the world was he going to get her to one? How did citizenship work with such things, and the senate-
Milo's head hurt even considering it all, and they had yet to even escape. The staff would spot the two of them leaving as plain as day but he made an attempt to hide her from the crowd at their back by widening his form and raising his head. The addict continued to twitch but what other option did he have? Hopefully the security was just as distracted by the latest performance as they were with Zira.
A sweaty hand continued to rest against the waistline of his pants, lifting every few seconds to reach for something behind him only to find itself back in place. What had he gotten himself into? He wasn't a hero, protector, or jedi, just a needy write-off. So why was he running off with a slave? "What the fuck am I doing," he muttered to himself, wearing a haunted look. "I'm so fucking dead."
He couldn't believe what he was hearing, his arms articulating in vague and unknowing way as though to non-verbally argue with her yet no words graced his lips despite the phantoms they formed. Milo wasted precious seconds and as Gulpo stirred not only himself but the crowd, that panicked expression returned. Hastily, he stashed the device away and snapped back at her. "We'll discuss this later, but I'm not kriffin' selling you. Let's get out of here-" Without a verbal command he motioned for her to get in front of him as he looked over his shoulder, pointing towards the kitchen which was bustling with occupied chefs and servants.
"Go," the vagabond hissed, not in the commanding tone of an angry master but of an anxious wreck. His previous thoughts concerning credits faded to mist, now he had a new problem, one which should never have been his choice to make in the first place. He had too many morals to sell the woman, but neither did he want a slave. Were there foundations for such things, rehabilitating the enslaved? Even if there were, how in the world was he going to get her to one? How did citizenship work with such things, and the senate-
Milo's head hurt even considering it all, and they had yet to even escape. The staff would spot the two of them leaving as plain as day but he made an attempt to hide her from the crowd at their back by widening his form and raising his head. The addict continued to twitch but what other option did he have? Hopefully the security was just as distracted by the latest performance as they were with Zira.
A sweaty hand continued to rest against the waistline of his pants, lifting every few seconds to reach for something behind him only to find itself back in place. What had he gotten himself into? He wasn't a hero, protector, or jedi, just a needy write-off. So why was he running off with a slave? "What the fuck am I doing," he muttered to himself, wearing a haunted look. "I'm so fucking dead."
@Sreeya