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Kistin, the watcher.

I needed a new set, and hopefully I would find at least one or two of them at the fair. "Standards" were easy to train, but horrifically boring. I needed something new, something exciting, something unusual. Hopefully before the day was out, I would have my latest canvases to perform my own unique brand of artwork.


The mascara brush clipped against the hood of my eyelid again, leaving a soft, black smear where there had once been light tones highlighting my almond shaped eyes. I sighed heavily, starting my makeup over again for what seemed like the millionth time, why did this have to be so darn difficult?

I quickly wiped everything off my face, and chose a small nub of a used pencil to give a quick liner to my eye before throwing everything back in my kit and turning to face my bed. Clothes? I didn't have much, and what I did have was on my body. Makeup and basic hygiene products that had been scrapped together by my parents, as a pseudo-going-away present? Sigh... Check. Nymphadora? The stuffed kitty sat, facing me with its eyes drooping towards my feet. "Me too, Nymph..." I thought aloud, piling everything into my backpack and doing one last look around the cramped room that had been home for years. It was time.

I didn't know what was going to happen to me. I didn't know that side of the world that well. Even though I'd been a servant my entire life, and came from a long line of "working class" men and women, my vantage into slavery was limited.

There had been once, when I was young. It was during the summer months, when I was out in a field with my guy friends playing some rough and tumble type of game. One by one, each of the guys stopped what they were doing, and turned towards the edge of the field, where a fully clothed man led several... things behind him. They looked like people, but were draped in so many chains and leather straps that they more closely resembled human-shaped treasure chests.

Back then, we all knew that there were people who were owned by their "betters", and that there existed a hierarchy of owners and masters and slaves, but if you had told me back then that I would eventually be forced into a role of a slave, I would've ran. I would've ran far away, where no one knew about that weird girl who never spoke and kept to herself; where no one knew me or who I used to be.

As I walked through the city, I wondered about the events leading up to today. Growing up as an average boy born to lower class servants certainly had its ups and downs. When I told my parents who I actually was, they grieved for the loss of their son before accepting their daughter some years later. When I told my employers who I actually was, they were... less accommodating. I tried my best every day at work, but was far from a fastest or most precise laborer. I knew that. My bosses knew that, and resented me for it. I believe their exact wording to my divulgement was "You can stay on board as a male servant- hell, you can even wear makeup and gay little dresses... But we will not have a woman working for us here, and we will do everything within our power to blacklist you if you tried to go anywhere else to work as a woman."

It was so humiliating. I hated the fact that bigots and assholes could control my life on a whim. I hated what they saw me as. Just because they saw a man with little to no beard stubble, and a thin frame lined with thinner muscles didn't mean that when I closed my eyes, I saw someone entirely different- the real me. The me who didn't just wear dresses or cheap, flashy makeup. The me who was ME- a woman. When I left their office after that shift, I closed my eyes, looking to Her for guidance. I found only frustration and sadness wrapped around a scared and teary eyed 20 year old girl. A servant girl like me without means to be of help to society threatened expulsion to the wide deserts surrounding the city, where only death would accept me.

A couple weeks later, after my struggl

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