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Nightmare on Alta Semita


Beauty
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Nymphias woke up, feeling rather groggy, her stomach queasy and bubbling, and paler than usual. She felt sore all over, tired even but worked relentlessly regardless because there wasn’t much else a slave could do. But Betua, having caught Nymphias on what was meant to her break, noticed the girl seemed off and told her to get a some “fresh air”. A slave couldn’t be sick in their master’s household, it didn’t help the flow of things. So now a slave wasn’t allowed to be feel unwell too. The stupid rules made by Romans were ever-growing.

Betua wasn’t wrong in sending Nymphias off into the streets surrounding her master’s home. She slowly began to feel a little better. She wandered the streets, simply admiring the Roman structures, the well-paved roads, so unlike what she was met with in Britannia, for the most part. Feeling more like herself, she sat down somewhere on a bench so she could listen to some birds tweeting and whistling.

Everything was calm until she decided she’d listened enough. She rose but then felt something. It couldn’t possible be, she thought. Oh, but it was. One of those surprising ones too. Nymphias wasn’t great at keeping track of things, especially when all days moulded into one after a while. Practically attached to the bench with her clothing likely stained at the back, she remained where she was. It wasn’t all that bad, it happened to most women. But then caught the familiar face of her master’s friend.

“Hello, domine,” she said innocently in greeting but made no move to stand up. “Very pleasant day today. Are you hoping to see my domine? You want me to give a message?” Hopefully he was distracted by that.

@Sara

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Longinus walked through the streets - excited for the days prospects. His mother had decided the games were not to her tastes, and Cassia - if it was possible - was even worse company when it came to Gladiatorial combat. She'd wince and screw her face up at even the faintest sight of blood, in a way he resolutely did not understand. At least his friend Titus could be relied upon to enjoy the bloodsport, however, and he whistled to himself in good humour as he strode the long way round to his domus. 

It was as he did so that he crossed paths with a fey little thing that he recognised from previous visits. The blonde was British, he'd deduced that from her accent the few times they had spoken previously and she had the height and build of one of those little dolls his daughter adored. Titus, ever uninspired with names for his slaves, had obviously decided on Nymphias. 

Arching a brow to her he inclined his head but something about her ashen face and resolute desire to stay seated confused him, and he arched a brow. "No, no I'm going inside to see him. We're going to the Games." He grinned boyishly and looked her over. "Are you ill?" It wasn't his place, but if she dropped dead down the street from Titus' domus and he hadn't asked her, he'd kick himself afterwards. 

 

TAG: @Beauty

I am so, so sorry Beauty! I swore I had replied to this...I'm an idiot, forgive me!

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