A Veiled Heart and Blooming Rose

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The Not-so-distant Past ...

"No Papa, please. I don't want to go."

Tears streamed down Faye's face as she felt her body jerk forward against her will. She had never been strong, and her father's grip on her wrist was filled with resolute determination; it carried her forward with such force and speed that her feet struggled to keep her body upright.

"Please, you're hurting me!"

If her words reached her father's ear, he made no move to show that he had heard them. Instead, he continued to drag her forward through the City's cobbled streets. Night had fallen on Cheapside, and few remained awake to hear her sobs. Of those, even fewer would have given care to offer aid.

Still, there were plenty who would have found the sight of a father dragging his daughter through darkened streets as easy prey.

" Shut up. SHUT UP!" A backhand across her face let loose her final cry before Faye fell to silence. She remained so for the remainder of the trek, save for the few whimpers she could not contain. They escaped her lips in bursts; each time one of them sounded out, she contemplated trying to wrench herself free. Experience had proven that course of action unwise, however. The scar on her neck served as a daily reminder.

They arrived at a tucked-away building deep within the belly of Cheapside. The structure was unique in that it was the only one of its kind to boast any measure of cleanliness. Where the surrounding edifices were covered in dust, dirt, and water stains, this one was maintained to near-pristine condition. Care had been given to its condition; the daily scrubbings that would have been necessary to keep the Cheapside grunge away made it seem like the building belonged within the Aspirations -- at least, were it not for the single red lantern that hung from the first story balcony. A sign bearing carefully-inscribed letters hung across the double-door entrance, though the style of writing was so flowery that Faye could not make the words out.

Where the rest of the City had turned to slumber, this part of Cheapside remained bustle with activity. Men and women of all races, occupations, and creeds made their way both in and out through the double-doors of the building: patrons of the establishment. Some dressed as homely as Faye did, covered in naught but rags, hands filled with pouches of coin that always seemed to vanish on their exit. Others wore the most fashionable fineries and the latest styles, decorated themselves from head to toe in adornment and jewelry that Faye would not have been able to afford in ten lifetimes.

There was one thing Faye found common between them all, whatever their social or economic differences. The ones who went in did so looking terribly lonely … and the ones who came out looked lonelier still.

Her father’s grip on her arm tightened as he resumed his path; Faye’s head twisted first to one side and then to the other, desperate to find some recourse for escape. Her body trembled in terror against both her and her father’s will, but it was not strong enough - not powerful enough - to overcome him. Before she knew it, her father had already shoved the wooden double-doors open and brought them both into the bordello’s parlor.

The first floor had been set up as though a bar, but it was one that was oddly quiet. Faye watched the customers; most sat alone at their own tables, nursing drinks they clearly had no real interest in, trying to appear comfortable when they were not. A few of the patrons had come with companions: friends, colleagues, clients - Faye could not say - but apart from the occasional awkward guffaw, even these groups seemed demure. Incense permeated the room, and Faye felt as though she might gag from its overwhelming aroma.

The bartender took one glance at them and jerked his head towards the stairway leading to the second floor.

As Faye felt herself being pulled against her will to a fate she dared not contemplate, her mind screamed out for her to do something, say something to stop this nightmare from progressing any further. They had reached the bottom of the staircase when she could hold back her voice no longer. “Please! Please don’t do this, don’t make me!”

His reply, cold and calm - barely louder than a whisper - was more devastating a blow than the backhand he had given her not fifteen minutes ago. “You deserve to be here, Faye. You belong here.”

A single sob escaped her lips.

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“Now look what you did to the little miss,” came a man’s high-pitched and nasally voice. “You must treat your companions with a little more tenderness, friend, or they’re just not worth the trouble.”

Faye didn’t recognize the stranger - not that she could through the tears in her eyes - but it was clear he was a man of some wealth; silken tunics and trousers were not often found on the bodies of the poor, and his fingers bore several golden rings, encrusted in gems. All the trappings couldn’t cover up the man’s natural deficiencies though: balding, with a pasty face and weak chin. The way he looked at her, Faye could not count herself lucky to have caught his attention.

The stranger continued to address Faye’s father. “Now, seeing as I had the next appointment and you’re trying to cut in front of me, of all people, I’ve a proposition to make you. You give up the little miss to me, we enjoy a happy hour or two, and then I’ll return her to you - in mostly good condition - and then we can forego having your legs broken for daring to try and take my --”

The man never finished his sentence. Faye’s father slammed his fist into the other man’s jaw, sending him sprawling onto the ground. Faye saw her father lunge forward again, saw the desire in his eyes to beat the life out of the other man, would have, had the bartender not leaped over his counter to bring a dagger to Faye’s father neck.

“We going to have a problem here?”

“Y-yes, we have a problem here, you imbecile!” roared the wealthy man, though with his voice it came out more a whine. He got to his feet, trembling in what appeared to be a mixture of humiliation and rage. “This customer of yours assaulted me, everybody here saw it! I want him thrown out, blacklisted! He’s never to show his face here again!”

“He’s not a customer,” responded the bartender as he glanced over to Faye; she withered underneath his gaze, unable to meet it. “He’s a … supplier.”

That brought a quirk to the rich man’s eyebrows, but it lasted only a second. “I don’t care who he is. Do you know who I am?! I want him out, before I report the whole lot of you to the Legion!”

The whole room seemed to stand up. Some of the patrons who had stayed silent up until then started pulling out weapons - daggers, swords, a few brought forward hammers longer and more massive than Faye’s father.

“My lord … that would not be the wisest course of action,” said the bartender. For the first time that night, Faye took a good look at him; he wasn’t the tallest of men, but he was lean and sported a neatly trimmed goatee. He could not have been older than thirty, but there was something about his eyes that made him seem much older.

“Perhaps you best return another night, my lord. It seems you have disturbed our other guests.” By the way the bartender addressed him, Faye guessed that the pasty-faced man was nobility of some sort. It was not a far leap to make, given his attitude. Now, though, it seemed he had bitten off more than he could chew.

“ … t-this … this isn’t over, you hear me?” the man wheezed, even as he scurried toward the exit. “You will regret this!”

The bartender directed a single-fingered gesture towards the quickly exiting noble before jerking a thumb upwards towards Faye’s father. “Samson’s waiting.”

In all the commotion that happened - her father punching the noble, the intensity of a whole floor of patrons getting up to threaten that same noble - Faye had forgotten that at last her hand had been freed. Her father had let her go - to assault a man for merely speaking about using her as a whore. She didn’t understand: why would he do something like that when it was he who was about to sell her to a brothel? But … she didn’t have time to understand. She would likely only have one chance to escape this place.

Faye ran.

Her father lunged after her; she heard him trip and collapse against wooden furniture, swearing to holy hell. A few of the patrons closest to her tried to bring her down with a tackle, but she dodged them with deft quickness and luck. She could feel a cool breeze waft in from the open doorway, smell the fresh air from outside. She could taste freedom.

She made it to the door just as it slammed shut, inches away from her face. The bartender calmly strode to block her path, grabbing her by the hair and pulling her back to her father. She cried, “No! No, let me go!”

“Welcome to the Veiled Rose,” came the only reply.