The Conquerors bloodline

Blake's hand lifted slowly, letting Marigold watch her movements with hesitance and no small amount of fear. As Blake's digits found their way to her high necked collar, ready to unbutton the first strangling blue clasp, Marigold jerked away. Her face scrunched up, but meeting the Faunus girl's understanding gaze, returned and let Blake loosen the first button.

Come the second, the collar had loosened enough to let the top slide easily off her head. The next to be undone were the hidden ones on her sleeves, those that latched around her wrists like cuffs, preventing the sleeves from riding up no matter the occasion.

After they were done, Blake met Marigold's eyes and lingered, soon offering her reassurance in the form of a little smile. No sooner was Blake digging the long blouse out from her similarly hued white skirt and up over the woman's body. The first attempt was slow as Marigold lifted her arms barely halfway up. By the second attempt—and with a wince as pain stung her side—the garb had finally been rendered from her form and set flowing to the ground.

The first thing Blake noticed were splotches, dirty dark purples edged with greens and yellows, most were becoming translucent, a sign of healing, even that they were close to disappearing. But there were simply too many. On her front, there was a large one on her side, half over her ribcage and half over her belly, like she'd been kicked in the side by a goliath or rammed into the bannister of a staircase. Another, well, a few markings even peaked through the top of the cups of her bra. Fading blue bitemarks formed so perfectly you could identify the perpetrator through dental records.

Marigold shot her hands to her breasts and hid them behind her arms. "It's ugly… isn't it?" her resistance to those thoughts, that denial of Bleu's abuse wasn't something she could keep up with anymore. Not while this young girl could see so clearly the evidence of her marriage. Her other arm crossed her belly and held her hip as her head hung and she stared at the floor, lip trembling like an earthquake was rocking it.

Blake lingered on her words, forcing back the scathe in her eyes to shake her head. "It's not." She looked to the doorway where Parc was waiting for them, "I can see Parc saying something cheesy like 'scars don't make a woman ugly, it makes the prettier.' Or something like that." She snorted.

"That's definitely cheesy… but he's wrong…" Marigold's hiding of her bosom dwindles as her mind recognized Blake's tenderness and gently she brought a hand to the edge of the large bootlike scar on her side. Wincing away from it when her touch brought a sting like a nettle. "Bruises aren't pretty. They're pathetic and weak and ugly." Each accusing word filled with more and more hate but it never showed in Marigold's unchanging expression of hollow, uncrying eyes. The tears she'd once shed, this small embarrassment was barely enough to earn a quarter of a drop.

Blake chattered her teeth then bit her tongue. Telling this woman she was wrong wouldn't get her anywhere. She may not have known how long Marigold and Bleu were married, but it was long enough for his actions against her to ruin her psyche and self-confidence. After chewing her lip for half a second more, Blake let out a silent sigh and said, "Let's… let's get you ready for Parc. Alright?"

Even if she shook her head, said 'no, it's not alright,' Marigold knew she'd be losing her dress. With a nod, Marigold decided to use what little self-worth she had left to undo the white ribbon belt that kept her skirt locked around her waist herself and let it bunch up around her feet. Only realizing then that she still needed to remove her flats.

Visibly, Blake's eyes widened and her breathing audibly hitched at what she saw. Blake turned her gaze up to see Marigold's lifeless smile and weak bob of her head. "My patheticness is trumped only by my tolerance to pain."

Marigold glanced over her shoulder, gauging how far to the bed and saw there wasn't far to go and within a step was lowering herself slowly onto the plush surface. Hoping that when the boy had said to get her out of her dress, he meant that literally and that she didn't also have to lose her underwear as well. Between her legs, she caught sight of her little brown flat shoes and with a slow exhale, lifted her legs one after the other to undo the buckles holding the converging dozen leather straps together.

When her foot came down, it was with a thump that sent the nerves of her left leg alight. But she bit her tongue, bit it till it hurt and hid the pain like she always did.

"Before… he comes in," Marigold lifted her head slightly, "can you just tell me what he's going to do to me?"

Blake's mouth hung open, that fish-eyed look to her. It wasn't that of a woman expecting help, it was that of a woman expecting hell. There wasn't trust in them, not anything at all but this hidden ominous nature that she'd play the doll for whatever her lord presided over her, no matter how cold-blooded the action may be. "He's not going to hurt you."

"There's many types of 'hurt' Blake. I should know." Like that, Marigold dropped her head and shut her eyes, ending whatever line of conversation she may have opened with her. Blake's focus trembled, utterly lost for words. To liken this woman to anything, it was like an actor just seconds before the cameras begin rolling. Marigold wasn't a woman, surely not, those slumped shoulders, those dirty marks like oil on a puppets skin left uncleaned. Blake gulped, stepped away from Marigold and turned to the door and called out for Parc to come in.

The door clunked as it opened then pushed inwards on well-oiled hinges and let Parc inside. His sleeves rolled up to the centre of his forearms but otherwise unchanged. In the doorway, he immediately paused and fell from Blake to Marigold. If he hadn't known Marigold was in the room, he may very well not have noticed her. That was just how little presence she exuded. He looked to Blake and she shook her head then shut the door behind him and shuffled closer.

Far too many points took his attention, too few of them were her womanly form. Compared to those bruises that swallowed her whole made it far too challenging to see where healthy skin began an injury ended.

"Marigold…" he softly began, but even that softness was enough to cause her to jerk and lift her head to him. Her lids widened, let him peer into her sullen orbs accepting of damnation and for the first time in a while, he felt lost for words. "Can you lie down for me?" his words staggered as Marigold nodded and lowered herself onto her back with her head rested on the pillow and arms loosely at her side, legs kept with so little power and will that she didn't even bother to hide her pantied crotch and that large blue bruise on the inner part of her thigh, fearsomely close to her groin.

Parc's chest rose high and emptied in a slow, continuous breath as he nodded to himself that he wouldn't race out of the room to rip Bleu apart. Descending to his knees so he was at a more apt height, he reached across Marigold and scooped up the vial Blake had brought in and after a bit of fiddling with the cap, had opened the glass container.

Blake skirted behind him, quickly moving to the door Parc had left open after his haze at seeing Marigold's tortured form and shut it. They may have been in a private room, but still, a door opened when a woman was in such a vulnerable position just didn't feel right… none of it felt right, she corrected herself.

"This might sting."