“ Do not pity them, Lady Killer,” the man in fine white robes with blue and gold trim said in an offhanded manner. He reached with a hand and smoothed back the side of his perfectly groomed hair. Then he curled his fist around his chin, tapping his high, angular cheekbone with one long slender finger.
Oman was a vision of stillness, surrounded by the withering, floating, voluminous robes of gray. The cloak of which, was pulled low around her head. As she shifted, she saw the man's blue eyes travel from the floor at her feet, to her waist and pause. His eyes narrowed, suspiciously occupied there at the small of her back. Like a tree blows against a gentle breeze she turned her neck, the fragrant clove root smoke blew in a stream through the veils silk fabric. He got the point, and turned once more to look through the large one-way plate glass window of the viewing room they were in.
“ I think, Sir, you mistake my scrutiny for pity,” Oman said succinctly in her throaty, sanded voice. The Slaver was quiet for a time, allowing her to peruse the line of ten women, blindfolded, bound, and knelt along a riser on the other side of the glass. “ Number's 1, 3, 6, and 10,” she lifted the hand holding the cigarette between the pinch of fingers, and indicated each in turn. The Slaver nodded, pushing and holding down a button on the wall next to an intercom. He relayed the numbers to a handler on the other side, and let the button go with a click. The four women were poked with a goad, and commanded to stand up close to the glass.
The Slaver again, put eyes on the eerie form of the Woman beside him. He watched with some level of amazement at the way she moved in perpetual grace. “ Fascinating,” he said to himself. Oman turned to level a gaze on the man. She mirrored him. From the carriage of his lean body, to the square of his broad shoulders. Even so much as to reflect his own snarky, objectifying, grin back at him. “ Number 6 does not meet the height requirement, or the weight ratio, and, I believe, Number 1 is a Barbarian. I remember having very specific needs when we spoke of this transaction,” she extinguished the cigarette between the pinch of her forefinger and thumb, " They were to be exactly 56 horts, weigh precisely 33 and one quarter stone, dark haired, light eyed and have fair skin. Too, they were all supposed to be of Ar." The Slaver, no longer fascinated or amused, cleared his throat and nodded. She continued, “ With that in mind, I will only be taking Numbers 3 and 10. I am quite sure that the price will reflect the difference, of course.” The man's jaw flexed hard as he nodded in agreement. “ They have been trained for my needs?”, Oman spun slowly to face the four women in a line, paying particular attention to the two she'd agreed to purchase. “ Yes. Just as you required, Lady Killer,” The Slaver replied, tucking his hands behind his back in a grasp.
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