The Basement

The bare rock of Spree didn't take to digging. The fortresses and prisons above the town had been excavated over generations of **** labor and conscripted weavers. The Temptress' basement was odd in the town, with none of the locals seeming to remember precisely when it was dug out, despite it having had to be a significant undertaking. Rob loathed the smooth-cut rock of the floors and walls, how things seemed to echo and distort down here, and five minutes turned into hours without you noticing. It was his distaste for the room that had led him to make it the first room all of the girls saw. A place they feared.

He lit the oil lamp and set it down. The light it gave was yellowed and greasy, leaving all the details out in an impressionist mask. Against one wall were stacked the crates, one for each elf that had been delivered here, freshly branded with their indenture. When they left, if they did, they went out the same way, neatly packed away for their journey. And in the center of the room was a new crate, the exterior showing roughly cut pine, still splintering and raw.

He stepped over to the crate, plucking the manifest from the top and straining his eyes to read it in the dim light.

DESTINATION: Temptress Brothel, Spravhn, Sea Spine
ORIGIN: Wyldsong Keep
CONTENTS: 1 Elf. Do not shake.

He glanced at the crate, which looked to have seen more than its fair share of shaking, dropping, and possibly a dire wolf attack. Flipping to the next page, he scowled further.

ELF: Quantity 1
Name: Unknown
Age: Unknown
Sex: F
Prior Profession: Servant
Birthplace: Losse

After the terse, mostly unhelpful form, a series of notes were scrawled between two brokers. Rob's face darkened further at the thought of the vultures that worked the camps, soliciting elvish refugees to indenture themselves for the promise of food and shelter.

Skaven, doing you a favor with this one. She's dirt cheap. We're even for that thing in Neverwyld now.
Avinc, you moron, this isn't a favor. Where's her paperwork? What's her name even? The last time I opened the crate, she nearly took my arm off. After that shit in Neverwyld, you pull this and expect me to thank you for it? What's next, an actual wildcat? Also, some soldiers showed up, asking about any new acquisitions. They didn't come out and say it, but they had a good long look at all the southern girls.
Skaven, if you're going to overlook a deal like this, then Hetz you. This is prime, untamed elf-meat. Plenty of buyers that want to do the breaking in themselves. Last chance to get in on this.
Avinc, you are a moron. I had buyers up when this THING arrived. She bit one of them. Do you want to do me a favor? Get rid of it. I don't care where.

After that followed a note, apparently from Avinc:

Rob, you've always been a good customer, so I hate to send you one this unruly, but getting her out of here is the only course of action. Suggest you handle it with care and pass it on to your "southern" friends with all due haste.

Rob grumbled, not enjoying the idea of that. After all, he wasn't running a waystation for elves heading to Yvvrn. No, he'd keep her, just to prove he could. Besides, the crate would have taken the fight out of her, he reasoned.