The cage he shared with five other boys roughly his age suddenly felt unbearably small. He wanted to turn away, to curl in on himself and hide from the calm gaze that seemed to rip through the layer of dirt on his skin, past skin itself, seeing inside of him somehow... listing every fault, every flaw, tallying them up. He ducked his head, the closest he dared come to hiding in front of a customer.

"That one. The shy one. How much?"

He heard a number, knew it was twice what he was really worth, easily twice what the merchant who owned him had told him he would be sold for. He couldn't read much beyond a few simple words, could barely scratch his name in the dirt of the holding pen, but when slave after slave was sold away he learned numbers, and knew that the price asked was merely a starting point.

"Done."

Startled, he looked up. The merchant as well seemed surprised, but didn't protest, merely led the well-dressed stranger out of the hall, away from the stink of unwashed bodies and cages cleaned too infrequently.

A cold shower, body rinsed off and dried with a scrap of towel dirty enough to make the shower nearly worthless. A simple piece of cloth, the merchant's mark stitched into it, was knotted around his hips to cover him as he was led out into the open courtyard behind the pens. His hands were bound in front of him with a piece of leather. Another piece, longer, was knotted around his throat, the tail of it becoming a leadrope.

He felt his stomach tumbling over itself as he stepped out of the shade of the doorway, following the pimply, red-faced assistant who yanked him roughly along. He knew the drill, kept his eyes on the dirt, watching little puffs of dust dance up from between his toes with each hurried step, not daring to watch his new Owner as he drew closer and closer... afraid.

Ashamed, knowing he was filthy, knowing this stranger had gotten a lousy deal on him, knowing that once the man realized he'd been cheated, he would likely take his rage out on the slave who had cost him so much.

Two polished leather boots entered his vision as he was drawn to a halt, their shine tempered somewhat by more of the dust that hung heavy in the warm air. Without raising his head, he let his eyes follow the boots somewhat. Well-muscled legs, clothed in snug trousers that must have been custom fit, nothing else could so perfectly hug limbs. The fabric was a soft shade of grey, reminding him of a feather he'd found once on the ground during his exercise period. His hands clenched slightly, easily resisting the urge to touch the fabric, to see if it was as smooth and warm as the feather's down had been, mind registering the desire with a distant sense of amazement.

"At that price, I would have thought you'd scour him clean and perfume him too... oh, well. What's his name?"

That voice again, and already he would have sworn he could have made it out in a crowd, told it apart anywhere. It rolled over him, clipped words but a lurking hint of laughter underneath them that sent a burst of mingled shame and safety through him. This was a voice that would protect him... and a voice that would have no qualms about pointing out his many flaws. He listened, wincing slightly, to the assistant's reply.

"He's clean enough, for a kitchen drudge or a field hand. He's got no name, m'Lord. That privilege is yours to grant, of course."

Breath caught in his throat, he waited... never been named? Looking back now, he doubts that, there had been something the handlers and other slaves had addressed him as, but apparently it hadn't mattered, hadn't been even worth mentioning. Perhaps merely a pet insult. He dives back into the memory, clinging to that voice as it once more wrapped around him.

"I intend to make more out of him than a kitchen drudge, if I can... and for what I intend, he'll need a name. Hmm... Radu. It'll do for now. Look at me, Radu."

His head lifted instantly, gratitude and fear and curiousity warring with each other for prominence in his expression, bound hands rising briefly to brush back the dark, still-damp hair that for a moment more hid his face from his Master's view.

A black-gloved hand caught at the leather around his wrists, prodding his own hands down, then rising again to finish tucking the last few strands of hair behind his ears. Laughter... eyes glittering with it, each word drenched in it, and yet the words themselves seemed so serious.

"We'll get you cleaned up and see what you become. Come, Radu. Three steps behind me, no more, no less. I trust you won't run."

"Radu will not run from you, Master," the boy breathed, little more than a whisper, swallowing hard. Shocked back into silence by his own speech, he managed a nod, then stood ready, waiting for his Master to lead on, taking advantage of the order to look up, eyes darting hungrily over the man's form, drinking in every detail of the one who was taking him away from the cages.

Tall... tall, and indeed as finely dressed as had seemed in the dimly-lit hall. A leather coat, nearly white but stained with a dizzying pattern of gold and grey, half-covered a pure white linen shirt and gold-embroidered grey velvet vest. More white, in the form of a gold-edged neckcloth, trickled down from a throat made signifigant by the set of four scars curling down from beneath long copper curls to disappear beneath neckcloth and coat collar. A black leather belt with two visible knife sheaths, the expensive-looking black gloves, and a black ribbon woven into the gleaming expanse of hair finished the outfit... and hinted at some half-hidden darkness within the man who wore it, something in those glittering, laughing eyes making Radu tremble.

"So intent... come, boy."

With the first audible chuckle the boy had heard slip past full, blood-red lips, the man turned sharply on one heel and walked toward the gate leading out of the high-walled courtyard. His long strides had him more than three steps away easily before Radu shook himself, scrambling to assume the place he'd been ordered to, and forced to nearly run to keep up with his Master's quick pace.