The Auction

"Ladies and gentlemen," the auctioneer announced, "we begin with a piece of unparalleled beauty, an artifact rumored to hold the essence of a star within its core."

"This is the Celestial Embrace, said to be crafted by the finest artisans in the city of Elysium. It is said that the wearer of this exquisite piece will be granted the grace of a heavenly being and the favor of the cosmos themselves."

The room grew silent as the auctioneer announced the opening bid. "We shall begin with fifty gold pieces," he called out.

The first bidder, a portly merchant with a crimson waistcoat, raised his paddle with a flourish. "Fifty gold," he proclaimed.

The auctioneer's smile grew wider, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. "Fifty gold, so it is. Do we have fifty-five?"

The tension grew as the bids climbed higher, each participant eager to claim the heavenly trinket. A lady in an emerald dress, her neck adorned with diamonds that matched the gleaming stones in the necklace, raised her paddle with a delicate arch of her wrist. "hundred," she purred, her eyes locked onto the prize.

The room buzzed with excitement, whispers of strategy and wealth fluttering like dark wings. The merchant's cheeks grew redder, his determination to win the Celestial Embrace evident in the way his knuckles whitened around his paddle. He retorted, "Two hundred!" His voice boomed through the hall, challenging the competition.

„Two hundred?! Damn, I'm completely out of place here..." Aldwyn was shocked to see how quickly the prices escalated.

The bidding war continued, the price rising until it was clear that the merchant would not be outdone. With a final, triumphant shout, he secured the necklace for a staggering five hundred gold pieces. The auctioneer's smile grew even more smug as the item was passed to an attendant for the winner's inspection.

The next "object" brought out onto the stage was not an inanimate artifact but a living, breathing creature. A female elf, dressed in a scandalously revealing outfit that barely contained her ethereal beauty, stepped out from behind the velvet curtains. Her eyes, a piercing shade of emerald, searched the room with a fierce intensity that seemed to challenge the very air around her. Her skin was like alabaster, her figure a sculpture of grace and power.

„They sell people over here too? Damn, the poor people that have to go through this..." Aldwyn couldn't help but show some empathy.

"Behold, the Sylvan Siren," the auctioneer announced with a flourish. "Her voice is said to charm the very beasts of the forest, to bend the will of the fiercest warrior. Her beauty is unrivaled, and her talents are many. She is a rare find indeed."

The room grew still as the bidding began, the price climbing until it reached a crescendo that left the air thick with the scent of greed.

"Two thousand gold," called a voice from the shadows. It was the woman in the emerald dress, her eyes not leaving the elf's figure.

The room was filled with a collective gasp, the price she had named was astronomical. The merchant's eyes narrowed, his jowls shaking with indignation. "Two thousand fifty!" he countered.

The elf's eyes met Aldwyn's, and for a brief moment, he saw a spark of hope, as if she were willing him to intervene. But he remained in the shadows, his mind racing with the implications of her presence here. Was she a prisoner? A willing participant? The lines between slavery and free will blurred in a world where power was often bought and sold.

The woman in the emerald dress took a step closer to the stage, her eyes never leaving the elf. "Three thousand gold," she called, her voice like the sweetest melody.

The merchant's jaw clenched, his hand hovering over his paddle. "Three thousand fifty!" he retorted, his voice strained.

But before he could continue, a figure emerged from the shadows at the back of the room. He was tall, with broad shoulders and a cloak that obscured his features. His eyes, gleaming like twin pools of oil, swept over the audience before settling on the elf. "Five thousand," he said, his voice calm and commanding.

The room fell into a stunned silence. The woman in the emerald dress stumbled back, her hand fluttering to her chest as if she had been slapped. The merchant's mouth hung open, his hand frozen mid-air. The auctioneer's smile grew even wider, his eyes flicking to the new bidder with unabashed greed.

"Five thousand gold," he repeated, his voice a purr. "Do we have five thousand fifty?"

The woman in the emerald dress looked ready to spit nails, but she remained silent, her eyes narrowed into slits. The merchant, on the other hand, looked like he was about to have an apoplexy.

"Five thousand fifty," he managed to croak out, his hand trembling as he raised his paddle.

The shadowy figure nodded once, a gesture so slight it was almost imperceptible. "Six thousand," he said, his voice carrying the weight of a king's decree.

The merchant's paddle clattered to the floor, his face a mask of disbelief and fury.

"Six thousand gold," the auctioneer echoed, his eyes alight with greed. "Do we have six thousand fifty?"

But no one offered more. The room remained silent, the tension palpable. The woman in emerald glared at the shadowed bidder, her cheeks flushed with anger, while the merchant's face turned a deep shade of purple. The elf's expression was unreadable, her eyes still locked with Aldwyn's.

The shadowy figure stepped forward, revealing himself as a man with a sharp jawline and piercing black eyes. He removed his hood, revealing a head shaved clean and marked with intricate tattoos that spoke of dark arts and ancient pacts.

"The Sylvan Siren is mine," he declared, and the room trembled at the finality in his tone. He tossed a bag of gold coins onto the stage with a clatter that seemed to echo the fate of the elf.

Aldwyn's instincts screamed loudly, it was clear that this man was extremely powerful.

The auctioneer's eyes grew wide, his greed barely contained. "Six thousand gold, from our esteemed anonymous bidder. Going once, going twice..." He paused dramatically. "Sold!"

The elf, now property of the tattooed man, walked off the stage with a grace that belied the shackles on her wrists and ankles. The room erupted in whispers, the excitement of the moment leaving a tangible energy in the air.

A few more items were brought forth and sold to the highest bidder, their origins and purposes as varied as the people in the room. Each transaction was met with a mix of envy, anticipation, and, in some cases, dread. The tome remained in the back, a silent sentinel to the frenzy unfolding before it.

Finally, the moment Aldwyn had been waiting for arrived. The auctioneer held up the book with a dramatic flourish, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "And now," he announced, his voice echoing through the hall, "we come to the pièce de résistance of our evening, a relic of such antiquity and power that its very presence here is a testament to the discerning tastes of our esteemed guests."

The tome looked almost innocuous under the soft glow of the chandeliers, its leather cover worn and unassuming. "The Whispers of the Outer Dark, a manuscript said to hold the secrets of the Outer Gods." Declared the auctioneer.

The murmurs grew into a cacophony of excitement as the room leaned in closer. The clerk who had registered Aldwyn earlier looked at him with a knowing smile, nodding slightly in recognition.

"We shall begin the bidding at one thousand gold pieces," the auctioneer announced, his eyes flicking to Aldwyn and then back to the room.

„One thousand? I knew it was worth a lot, but that much?" Aldwyn was surprised, but also pleased at this realization.

The woman in emerald raised her paddle, her eyes flashing with a mix of greed and spite. "Four thousand gold," she called out, her voice a sharp contrast to the elf's melodic bid.

The tattooed man studied the tome intently, his eyes flicking from the book to Aldwyn and back again. He raised his hand slowly, the room hushing in anticipation. "Five thousand," he said, his voice as smooth as the shadows that danced around him.

The woman in the emerald dress stiffened, her grip tightening on her paddle. "Six thousand," she shot back, her voice a little less confident this time.

But the tattooed man was not to be outdone. He raised his hand again, the tattoos on his neck shifting like serpents. "Seven thousand," he said, his eyes never leaving the book.

The room grew tense, the bidding a silent dance of power and wealth. The woman in emerald looked as though she might explode with rage, but she lifted her paddle one last time. "Eight thousand," she spat, her voice dripping with spite.

But before the auctioneer could respond, a new voice rang out from the back of the room, clear and unmistakable. "Ten thousand gold," his accent one of nobility and refinement.

„Ten thousand? Holy shit, am I getting rich?"

All heads turned to the source of the bid, a figure dressed in finely tailored black, his face obscured by the shadows of the hall. The room grew still as the air crackled with anticipation, the whispers of the audience hushed by the sudden influx of wealth. The tattooed man's eyes narrowed, his hand hovering over his own paddle.