Rasheeka and the other new slaves are roughly wakened before dawn, and ordered out of the kitchen by the head cook, who is offended by their mere presence there. "This is not a sleeping chamber! Out! Out! I do not care what you do or where you do it but you cannot stay here! I cannot imagine what Steward Rasmus was thinking, putting you in here in the first place, meh," the human man pronounces, irritated. "I surely have no time to find a place or a use for you. Out!"

The six Savanites, two Rhians, and Rasheeka line up in the kitchen hall, glancing to each other, trying to stay out of the way of the servants who come past, all moving with a quiet, business-like purpose. Winter-Stars signs, "I wonder if we could just walk out of here now. It doesn't seem like anyone would notice if we were gone."

"That's a brilliant idea," Shock-of-Light signs, acerbic. "We'll just dance on out to the street where we'll blend in perfectly with the human and vulpine natives. Why, I bet there'll be plenty of people looking to give shelter to a bunch of total strangers who don't speak their language! This isn't Abu Dhabi, Winter-Stars. Even if we did leave, where would we go? What would we do?"

Rasheeka stands beside her friend Winter-Stars, blinking sleepily, and looking well worn out. Her glasses droop well down her muzzle and far from her eyes, leaving Rasheeka's vision fuzzy from more than lack of sleep. After a moment squinting at the signs exchanged between the Savanites, Rasheeka signs, "It wouldn't be wise to just walk out. There could be any number of troubles, any number of breaches of protocol – it is much too dangerous for us." The slave looks up to Shock-of-Light for a moment before continuing, " … and Shock-of-Light is correct. Where would we go? There is nowhere. Nowhere at all."

"I suppose you're right," Winter-Stars signs back. She peers curiously at one of the lamps along the wall. "I wouldn't know what to do with myself if I was free, anyway. It's just … "

"Yes. Nowhere," signs Rasheeka curtly. She bites her lip, looking pained for the brief moment before she shades her face as she pushes her glasses up her muzzle and back in to place.

"This place makes me nervous," another Savanite, a male named Stands-Straight, adds in. "These people don't even care about us. I know we're a gift – but does the prince even want us? Does anyone? What are we doing here?"

"Waiting," Shock-of-Light responds, sharply.

"I do not understand this place," signs Rasheeka as she looks up, the hurt expression vanished and hidden behind her tired weariness. "There is nothing of Laos Enosi. It is all very confusing. 'Logos's empty shelves are Kasaris's shadows.'"

"I thought you said people had been here, what, a thousand years ago?" Shock-of-Light signs. "Don't you know stuff about them from then?" It's hard to tell if she's serious, or baiting the Khatta.

Rasheeka blinks, whiskers twitching at a bait she is uncertain of. She bites her lip, then frowns for a quiet moment as she waxes thoughtful. Eventually she looks down the hall and back and signs, "There is little to speak of. It is not hard to understand, if you look at the exchange between the captain and dynatos tyr. The Laos Enosi have particularly delicate customs. Trade must have ended with great trouble, perhaps … perhaps as poor as the captain's own."

The other felines shuffle anxiously in their places, looking away from Rasheeka at the reminder of the fate of their last owner. The Rhians speak a little to each other – they are even more isolated than the Savanites, as they speak a language not even Rasheeka knows, though one of them knows a little of Rephidim Standard. Conversation lulls as the felines avoid each other's gaze, lost in their own thoughts.

After what seems like hours of waiting, one of the passing servants takes pity on the unattended slaves. She goes into the kitchen and brings out some bread and cheese, and a few withered-looking vegetables of uncertain nature, as well as some strips of dried meat. The Rhians perk at the sight of vegetables, and the Savanites gladly let them test out the strange food.

Tired and hungry, and not quite as used to being meek about being served as the other might be, Rasheeka steps forward. She bows briefly in thanks, hands clasped together before her, and then glances back towards Winter-Stars briefly before holding her hands out helpfully. Knowing not what to say she offers, "A thousand thanks to you," in Laosian, with the mind that one cannot sound too grateful.

The vixen servant starts at Rasheeka's words, looking as surprised as if a vermite had suddenly spoken to her. She blinks a few times, then nods in return. "Even slaves must eat," she says. She frowns as she turns away, shaking her head and swishing her brushy tail. "And someone's got to be wanting you lot for something, I am certain," she murmurs to herself.

The Khatta looks equally surprised by the vixen's reaction, and she says rather than signs to Winter-Stars, "The servant woman … she was surprised?" Blinking, the feline watches the vixen walk off with an air of disbelief. "Surprised, as … as if she did not expect that I could speak?" The very idea is unsettling to Rasheeka – Rasheeka, daughter of Ashquar, daughter who speaks many languages. She finds herself suddenly offended, and hurt in a way she cannot quite fathom.

For her part, Winter-Stars is tearing eagerly at a hunk of bread, washing it down from one of the flasks the vixen brought. She shrugs at Rasheeka, in an eloquent, if wordless, reminder that she is quite accustomed to being treated like a dumb animal. She offers the water to the Khatta.

One of the equines tastes a bit of the odd vegetables, then shrugs and nods to his fellow, and the two of them contentedly split the remainder, along with some of the bread.

The water is accepted, and Rasheeka eases her thoughts with bread and water. As the Khatta chews she urges herself to remember these are very isolated people, that they do not seem to know of the differences between Khattas and Savanites. It helps, but not quite enough, and Rasheeka is left with the disquieting reminder she is "just one of the slaves" – a gift, like cattle. She chews her meal in silence for the moment, passing the flask back after another sip.

Not too long after that, an old, portly human male approaches them purposefully, a glower on his wrinkled brow. "Shameful!" he says as he surveys them. "Simply shameful! Who among you speaks?" he asks.

The Savanites shuffle nervously under his gaze, their blank, uncomprehending looks echoed by the Rhians. Being capable of speech is no advantage, when they can neither understand nor be understood.

Rasheeka looks between the others briefly, quickly reminded that here in this strange land only she amongst them speaks the native tongue. So she steps forward, bows deeply, and offers in Laosian, "A thousand pardons that we bring you such grief, O honorable and fortunate sir, may your days shine forever under Primus's favor. I amongst us know Laosian."

The older man's frown only deepens at Rasheeka's speech. "Meh. I suppose you do, after a fashion." He looks unimpressed as he continues, "I am Rios Donos." The prefix "Rios" is a common title of respect, signifying little about the bearer except that he is a free man – similar to what "Monsieur" means in Gallisian, or so bar Ravid had told Rasheeka. "Tell your fellows to follow me. We'll get you some proper clothing." He eyes their current apparel – the good clothing that Ledyr and Wahed had only just given to them yesterday, in preparation for their presentation – with flared nostrils and unconcealed contempt.

Again Rasheeka bows, this time as she steps back and then rises to turn to the others. In Rephidim Standard she explains, "We are to follow this man Rios Donos. It is his will we do so." She leaves her eyes searching among the puzzled faces of her fellow slaves, making sure they appear to understand.

The others offer her mixed looks. "What did he say, Rasheeka?" Winter-Stars signs.

The two Rhians consult one another, and the one that knows a little Standard says, "We follow?"

First Rasheeka nods to the Rhians. "Follow," she repeats in Standard. Then she turns to Winter-Stars and signs, "We are to follow, and receive new clothes. We should not delay him."

Shock duplicates the Khatta's signs, pointing to the human and then to the rest of her fellows. She wipes crumbs off her hands and bows to Rios Donos, and the others slowly follow her lead. Donos's nose twitches briefly, then he turns, leading them away down the corridor.

Unlike Rasheeka's trip on the previous evening, this excursion only leads them through the corridors of the first level, not up any flights of stairs. The portly man brings them into a large, inner room, where a few vulpines sit, legs stretched before them, on low chairs, baskets at their sides, stitching. Another fox stands, cutting cloth at one of two long, tall tables, and while the last is measuring out material and pinning on patterns to it. The one pinning material leaves off his work as Rios Donos enters. "Rios Thario, find some garb for these prodotis," Donos tells him. "They belong to dynatos tyr now."

Thario does not answer at first, only looking over the slaves with wide eyes. As Donos moves to leave, he answers, "I have nothing that will fit such … such … " He falters, lacking words to describe whatever it is he's thinking of them.

"Then make something," Donos answers. "I give you the words of Steward Rasmus. They must be garbed."

"As the steward says." Thario bows to Donos in obedience, and the human leaves.

Feeling something of the de facto leader of the other slaves, if only because she speaks the language of Laos Enosi, again Rasheeka turns around to address the others. "We are to be garbed. I don't believe they … " She glances back at the man who was cutting cloth before continuing, " … they have seen our like before. We may need to be fitted. It is not difficult, but it requires that we stand and pose as they direct," she explains in Standard that all might hear – at least those who are slaves anyway.

After reviewing the faces of her fellows for a moment, Rasheeka frowns, bites her lip, then begins quickly rehashing what she just said in Khattan, then Standard once again – this time more slowly and in simple words.

When he straightens, the fox gives a heavy sigh. "Prodotis," he mutters. "Veils of beyond." The last has the ring of a proverb, or perhaps an epithet, though what it's supposed to mean, Rasheeka can only guess. "Quiet, you," he tells the Khatta, looking irritated by the incomprehensible – to him – explanation.

Ears splaying to the side as Rasheeka notices the admonishment, she turns to offer the vulpine another bow before she straightens and watches him curiously.

The vulpine looks a little surprised by Rasheeka's relatively prompt obedience, and gives her an appraising look, before he calls over one of the seamstresses. "We may as well start with you," he tells the larger of the two Rhians. The equine makes an exaggerated gesture to himself, looking around at the others, then moves to the front as Thario gestures impatiently at him. "Meh," the fox repeats, looking up at the much taller man. "If we can manage you, we can do the rest, I imagine."

Rasheeka turns to watch the servants gather around the Rhian, following their movements with some amount of curiosity. She thinks that this is interesting, despite her predicament, and she knows few outsiders have seen the ways of Laos Enosi and perhaps none have witnessed their clothing design techniques. So she watches carefully with the air of one studying, trying to put to memory their ways that she might know them a bit better.

A few hours later, and the last of the slaves have been outfitted in one of the style of Laos Enosi. They all are given loose pants and shirts with wide sleeves – the men's tying around the wrists, and the women's tapering down to them. They are also given overgarments – the men get open, sleeveless jackets, called a "gikeko", and fashioned like the kind the tyr wore, only of simple styles and thigh-length. The women each receive a "sakaki," a high-collared garment that laces closed at the sides, and at the waist, in back, splits into two tapered flaps, while a single tapered front flap goes to mid-thigh on most of them. On the little Rasheeka, her sakaki hits at about her knees, and the lacing goes from her lower ribcage to her hips, making the fit look rather strange.

Thario plainly did not enjoy the challenge of outfitting them, and the Rhians suffer the most for their new apparel, which is decidedly too small for their frames. Still, apparently the tyr, or at least Thario, cares more about the attire of his slaves than Ledyr or Wahed had, for he dutifully takes the measure of each one, and intends to have new garments sewn to fit their curious proportions and sizes. He finds Rasheeka the most perplexing, with her furred body but plantigrade legs, but he is resigned to the task.

By the time they're done, yet another servant has been dispatched to find a purpose for them. The Rhians and a pair of the Savanites are taken away to load wagons, or so Rasheeka tries to relay to them as they are led off. The rest of them are given large, heavy sacks of oil, and shown how to check the hall lamps to see if they are full, and how to refuel them if they need to be topped off. The servant stresses, several times, the importance of doing the task exactly the way he shows them, of not filling a lamp past the line, and of not spilling any of the oil. The oil, itself, is something of a marvel for Rasheeka, as it burns very cleanly, without any perceptible odor or smoke.

This really is quite a wonder, thinks Rasheeka as she lugs the heavy sack of oil down a hall. She stops and carefully lays the sack down, taking a moment to catch her breath and ease her muscles as she ponders the concoction. The physical labor might be far more troubling if the material wasn't so interesting – liquid that burns, and with no smoke or unpleasant smell! Surely she knows many who would pay fortunes for such a thing.

The larger and stronger Savanites didn't have nearly as much trouble managing the soft-sided flasks, but Rasheeka's lightweight physique and lack of exercise puts her at a decided disadvantage, forcing her to fill the lamps at a fairly slow pace. She can't get a good rhythm for the work going; if she puts the bag down to rest, then it's a struggle to lift it again to the height of the lamps. But if she doesn't take a break often, her arms quickly tire, making it difficult to hold the nozzle of the flask steady, and make sure it doesn't spill.

After resting a moment, the slave Khatta lifts her head and peers down the hall at the next lamp. It's several steps away, and at that uncomfortable height. She breathes a sigh and begins the task of trying to pick the flask up again and carry it to the lamp, hoping she doesn't tire herself out before she reaches it and thus force herself to need to rest again.

The servant giving her the task instructed her to keep filling lamps until the sack was empty, then to return to the storeroom for more. At her initial slow pace, Rasheeka finds the thought of getting the full flask emptied into lamps to be a Herculean task. But as she makes her way down the corridors, topping the lights off, her burden lightens, and the job starts to seem manageable. Every now and then, her stomach rumbles, an uncomfortable reminder of how long it's been since she's eaten.

The task isn't served any better by the new clothing Rasheeka has been dressed in. Rasheeka finds the clothing awkward, though intriguing – after all it is one thing to observe another culture she finds, it is quite another to be assimilated into it. Though she sorely wishes that assimilation had come on better terms, and despite her more positive intellectual musings her mind is often drawn to wonder if this will be the extent of her existence – to toil about hallways refilling lamps for the rest of her days, for all intents and purposes no different than the Savanites she came here with. She wonders if it is divine punishment, if she had somehow offended the gods during her life, or perhaps her family had. Such thoughts occupy her time as she struggles to empty the flask and go about her rounds.

Other things give her opportunity to distract her mind from the drudgery of servitude. The hallways are far from empty, and the slave catches snippets of conversations and talk as she goes about the job given her. The Laosian word for this "palace" is "Astikos," she infers. Its many corridors and complexes of rooms house many occupants, and many more visitors on a daily basis, judging by the way the traffic flows. A lot of people wear outdoor clothing, or carry cloaks, suggesting they have recently arrived and do not intend to stay long. As the day wears on to night, the halls and the rooms adjoining them grow quiet and empty, by comparison with the earlier comings and going. The Astikos seems more like a place of business than a palace, or a home – even for a prince.

"What are you doing?" a young voice cries, as Rasheeka tips oil into a lamp. She turns to see a human boy, perhaps a few years younger than herself, hustle toward her. He carries a ceramic cone that wobbles at the end of a long ceramic shaft.

The sudden question nearly causes Rasheeka to drop the oil entirely, but she manages to catch it in time and lay the lightened flask on the ground. "I am filling these lamps," she answers uncertainly, quickly adding, "It is as I was told."

"Who told you to fill lamps at this hour?" the boy asks, astonished. "It's past fourth bell! I've been putting out lamps for at least an hour now."

Rasheeka blinks. Nothing was said about any bells as she recalls. "It is as I was told," she repeats, her voice dropping form merely uncertain to clear confusion. "I was not told of any bells – only that I should fill the lamps until the flask was emptied, and return."

"Well, never mind that now. Go put the oil back in the storeroom; it's silly to be filling lamps after fourth bell," the other servant says, as if this was a perfectly obvious fact that anyone would know.

"What does 'fourth bell' mean? I am … " The Khatta slave pushes up her glasses as she thinks on how to explain her situation, deciding on the simple answer after a moment of thought. " … not native to your land. To this place. I do not know 'fourth bell.'" Question posed, she watches the boy curiously for his answer while lowering herself to scoop up the oil flask in to both hands gently.

"You don't know fourth bell?" The boy looks at her as if she'd grown a second head. "How … Neh." He rubs at his short, dark hair. "Fourth bell is the bell for bed time, for most folk." He counts off on his fingers. "First bell is for waking, second bell is for dinner, third bell is for supper, and fourth bell is for sleep. Only I can't go to bed until I put out most of the lamps, of course, because we can't leave them all burning all night; what a waste of oil that would be. But it always takes well after fourth bell because I can't start until a quarter to fourth bell or people get mad about walking around after supper in the dark."

Rasheeka begins to bow but quickly remembers her burden and stops. She simply bows her head instead. "Many thanks to you. I must be going, then, if it is as you say. I have been away too long, I believe," she tells the bow. She gives another nod to excuse herself, then quickly scurries off to the storeroom.

The Khatta makes her way through darkened corridors – at night, it appears four of every five lamps are extinguished. When she reaches the storeroom, only the little antechamber to it is open – the door that leads to where the other supplies are is empty, and there's no attendant there.

The little feline gives a disheartened sigh as she sees that the attendant has since left. Briefly she ponders what to do with the oil, and decides to simply place it somewhere out of the way rather than try and stumble around in the dark. She carefully lowers the flask to place it by the door where the attendant had been thinking that someone will come along in the morning and know what to do with it.

The feline slave makes her way back to the room where she had last seen all her fellow slaves – the tailor's area – but finds the door to it locked. She turns, yawning, and heads for the kitchens, seeing no one on her way back. She passes a window, and the sky outside is pitch black. At the doorway to the kitchens, a Savanite girl is squatting on the floor, half asleep, a little satchel next to her.

"Winter-Stars?" inquires the Khatta quietly of the Savanite as she makes her way over. When she draws near she lowers herself to kneel beside the other slave, trying to get her attention. "It is you, it is so?"

The cheetah shakes herself awake, blinking. She gives a pleased ear-wiggle to the Khatta. "There you are, Rasheeka!" she signs. "We missed you at supper! I was afraid you'd gotten lost. Fussy-Face – " (That must be her sign for the attendant who gave them the task of filling oil lamps.) " – was in a furor because you hadn't come back for more oil yet. What's kept you so long?" she asks, anxiously. She digs into the satchel at her side, holding out a loaf of bread to the girl. "And I saved you some supper. At least they don't stint on food when they remember to feed you."

When Rasheeka sees the bread there in the dark she stares at it, and swallows hard. "Lost," she signs distractedly, a single gesture. She doesn't further elaborate on what exactly happened, instead tucking her knees in and settling down beside Winter-Stars to get comfortable. Once settled she accepts the bread and signs with her free hand. "Many thanks for this bread, Winter-Stars." The sign for "many thanks" being a vehement gesture of the regular "thank-you," showing its strong meaning when she lacks another hand to add gesture to do so. "I am glad we did not get taken away from each other." She looks up from the morsel, biting her lip and smiling, and she wiggles her ears a little – just like Winter-Stars always does. And she finds she is glad for the dark, for surely were it light Winter-Stars could see the tears fight to well up in her eyes. And she wouldn't want that.

The next day begins better than the last had. Winter-Stars shows her to her room – "You get a room! Of your own! We all do! Isn't that amazing?" – which is little more than a dark cell with a long flat cushion on the floor for a bed. It is, however, private. They awaken the next day at first bell – the noise of which Rasheeka had simply screened out the day before, as irrelevant to her, like the bells that tolled on occasion in her own home – and go down to begin the morning's work. Winter-Stars explains the routine to her, as she and Shock-of-light pieced it together from "Fussy-Face." "We light lamps right after rising, in assigned sections of the Astikos, then we go to breakfast. We have these – " She shows Rasheeka a little flint-and-tinder arrangement at the end of a long ceramic shaft. " – to light them with; aren't they clever? I made sure we got one for you – that was hard to convince Fussy-Face! It'll be easier with you there to translate."

Rasheeka smiles a little, and nods in agreement. "They are clever," she agrees in sign. "In Tizhar there are many who would pay heavy coin to know how to make the oil and create these items. But yes, I will come and translate. It will be easier. And I will not get lost."

"I'm so glad!" Winter-Stars beams at the Khatta. "But we did pretty well for not knowing what she was saying! See, after breakfast, we check on the level of the lamps. I can't imagine that they'll have dropped that much just since yesterday, but Shock says I don't know anything, and she's right, you know. So we re-fill the lamps that have gotten low. Then we get a break for dinner, and then I think Fussy-Face wants us to learn something about mending lamps but it was too complicated to understand without knowing her language. Then more fueling lamps, then dinner, then we put out lamps, then bed. It's not too hard," the Savanite finishes, looking much happier to have a routine in place, than she had the day before, wondering if anyone would notice if they left.

Rasheeka listens attentively, if not exactly as pleased as her digitigrade feline counterpart. When the Savanite finishes, Rasheeka pushes up her glasses, and then signs, "It is very tedious, isn't it? And the oil is very heavy. I don't see how you even finished yesterday. I didn't empty a single flask."

The Savanite flattens her ears against her head. "You didn't?" She looks taken aback. "No wonder Fussy-Face was so put out. I went through two and started on a third before third bell rang. Shock-of-Light finished three, but she said a lot of hers were almost empty. Maybe you just had a lot of ones that had been checked more recently," the other feline offers, optimistically.

"No," signs Rasheeka as she looks over Winter-Stars to see if any of the other Savanites are watching her signs. When she looks satisfied she signs carefully, trying to make sure only Winter-Stars can see – the Savanite version of a whisper. "I'm just not very good at lifting things." Her fingers pause as unpleasant memories break her concentration. "When I was free, when I lived back at home in the manor, I didn't lift a lot. It's hard for me. I know it's been harder on all of you but … no, never mind. Come, let's go."

Winter-Stars nods a little. "It's all right," she signs. "You'll get used to it. Shock did." Rasheeka isn't sure if she finds that reassuring or not, but the two slaves then split to light the lamps. Happily, this is much easier work for Rasheeka than carrying around the heavy oil had been, and when she's done with it, in good time, she reunites with the other slaves for breakfast.

Human servants – almost all of them male, that Rasheeka can see – sit on cushions, their legs folded beneath them, while the vulpines dominate the chairs. The Khatta doesn't have time to get a good look at them, however, as a thin, sharp-featured woman with her hair braided severely back from her face strides towards them. The Khatta can't even remember if the senior servant had introduced herself when she gave them instructions on the previous day … but she immediately thinks, Winter-Stars has a point – she does have a fussy-looking face.

The Khatta slave bows to the surly-looking servant as she approaches, much the same greeting she gave her yesterday – and most everyone else of minor station, as well. When she rises she watches the senior servant expectantly, waiting for the directions she knows to come.

Fussy-Face lifts a her arm to deliver a hard back-handed slap across Rasheeka's face. "You lazy, ignorant, stupid slave!" she yells. "How dare you leave oil outside the storeroom! How dare you spend all day nursing a single pitiful bag and not even finish half your lamps? And then to come here and look at me as if – as if – " Her shoulders shake with rage, and she hits the slave again, across the other cheek.

Rasheeka barely has time to mew in surprise when the senior servant's hand impacts her face. Her head is jarred violently, causing her glasses to skid down her face, and she only manages to just straighten when the second blow comes and causes the slave to stagger a step from the blow. Her ears splay immediately after that, and she reaches a shaking hand to cover one of her now sorely aching cheeks.

Dazed, Rasheeka has just managed to avoid stumbling to the floor. Any reply or attempt to defend herself is quite lost to her.

Winter-Stars, too, cowers to one side, ears canted out, while Fussy-Face shakes out her hand. "You – you – prodotis!" she spits. "If you think I will tolerate your laziness or incompetence, think again! If you cannot do better today, I will see you truly punished!" She hits the mewling slave in the face again, then stalks away.

When she hears the sound of the Fussy-Face walking away Rasheeka lifts her head. She watches the sour woman walk away with glazed vision, every blink pushing a salty tear down across burning cheeks. Her glasses sit akimbo on her face, and she leaves her hand there to hold a cheek. "She's g-g-going to k-kill me," she mewls in Khattan. "They're t-too heavy."

" – she – she's not going to – don't worry, Rasheeka," Winter-Stars signs, straightening the other slave's glasses and making her face her. "We'll help you. It'll be all right, Rasheeka!"

With her face drawn up by the other slave the extent of Rasheeka's pain is visible. She tries to choke down the tears with every other breath – the effect causes her more to appear to hiccup than actually help her. She just nods, slowly, uncertain if anyone can really help her, and with the cold reminder of the angry overseer clear in her mind.

Winter-Stars talks to Shock-of-Light, and Stands-Straight, and they agree to help cover Rasheeka's area. "And you can empty your bag into ours," Winter signs. "We'll dash back to you now again, and it'll look like you're working faster.

Shock looks sour about the whole plan. "I don't like you, Rasheeka. You need to learn to carry your own weight. But I'll help you on this one. Only because," she concedes, "you're the only one who can talk to these people. Better for us if you're intact."

Rasheeka stands on her toes, squeezing some of the oil from her flask in to the lamp, trying hard to keep the nose steady when her hands are jittery. When anyone walks by she tries to appear diligent, confident, as if she were trying really hard – but truly she's trying little harder than she had been before. No matter how much effort she may want to put to it, she's just not made for this kind of work, and she moves slowly despite her best efforts. It doesn't help that she expects Fussy-Face to storm down the hall in a fury, and then she'll know not only she is in trouble, but her friends as well.

As she turns one corner, looking over her shoulder nervously, she almost runs into a well-dressed vulpine man. "Ah! There you are," he says, and she places the voice – the fox named Rasmus, the one who showed her how to make ink from their blocks, when the tyr wanted her to write a letter. Though he doesn't smile at her, there's something pleasant, even friendly, about his tone that has been absent from the voice of almost every native who has spoken to her directly in this foreign land.

Despite his manner, his presence and sudden address causes Rasheeka to feel a rush of panic. She smiles briefly for his friendliness, though it's a nervous smile. She holds the flask in her hands together, careful to keep it from spilling, and bows.

"What are you doing, Rah-seeka?" he asks, mildly, pronouncing her name without the 'sh' sound. He looks at the sack of oil in her hands, then shakes his head. "Never mind, it does not matter. Let's return that to the storeroom and we'll have you on your way to Afentis Hefione, meh?"

"Oh!" exclaims Rasheeka suddenly at the change in plans. "Afentis Hefione? Oh, oh … " She fidgets with her hands, glancing back over her shoulder again and then turning to renew her bow. "Ste- … " She pauses at his title, voice wavering uncertainly, " … "Steward? Steward Rasmus. I-I obey, b-b-but would it be too much, O great servant of dynatos tyr, if I could speak with t-the other slaves like … like me? T-they m-must know I have gone. Fus- … T-the overseer who directed us may b-b-beat them if not."

"What – " the steward starts to ask, then shakes his head. "I'll speak with whomever was in charge of you. Rena, was it? Do not worry about it. Dynatos tyr has other plans for you than … " He glances ruefully at the sack of oil. "… filling lamps."