SMUT... BOX

[photophobic]

for all our where should we put this needs

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[cucaracha]

This could have gone better.

It was supposed to be an easy mark. Light highway robbery to get him through the next few days. He hadn't realized he'd wandered so far from familiar territory, far enough that Skaikru meant nothing, and that this particular highway was surveilled by strategically-placed lookouts high above in the trees. They had him captured before he even made his move. As usual, deemed guilty before the crime was even committed.

Now he's on his knees before their king. Haihefa. That means "king", right? Murphy's not quite conversational in Trig yet.

"I just got lost," he explains (in English) to the enormous occupant of that scrap-metal throne. With his arms bound this tight behind his back, even shrugging is impossible. "It was a mistake. You can let me go and I'll just go back where I came from. No big deal."

[photophobic]

"Lost," the great God-King echoes, leaning forward from his broad recline on his reentry-scorched throne to look the stranger over. He doesn't sound particularly impressed or inclined to believe whatever story his uninvited guest cares to offer, and his dark eyes carry a peculiar weight as he drags his gaze over the scrawny, fettered shape of him. Curiosity, yes— but it seems very much like he's looking for something in particular.

"Is that so. And where did you come from, I wonder?"

His gaze slides to the pair of warriors who had escorted the prisoner in— hanging back by the heavy doors, their eyes dipped to the floor— and settles back on the figure knelt at his feet.

"You're not one of my Protected."

[cucaracha]

"I could be?" Murphy suggests weakly.

It's never a good sign when the guy in charge repeats your words back at you. Granted, Murphy wouldn't believe himself either. The nearest settlement isn't exactly stumbling distance away.

"I left Polis a little while. Looking for work. I'm a cook, you know. Not to brag, but I'm one of the best. Do you need one? A king could always use more cooks. I can prepare you a whole feast if you want. We'll call it a trial."

[photophobic]

"You'd like a knife, would you?"

Kylo considers his guest for a moment, then reaches out a hand. Invisible force coils around Murphy's body, dragging him smoothly across the floor until he kneels at his feet, close enough for Kylo to see the marks and bruises from a brief but certainly determined scuffle with his warriors. Some of these marks are older, though. Much about him suggests a long history of surviving in the tread of another's boot, and when Kylo reaches to lift his chin with a touch, he catches a flash of something like resentment. Resignation shot through with a streak of bitter defiance. Loathing, perhaps, but not...

"You don't look like you've seen a feast for quite some time."