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My stomach churns at the sight.
“Six-hundred fifty thousand nodal,” the elderly xaphan cries out, sounding as though every word might be his last. His voice is both coarse and flimsy as he feebly picks himself up from the floor.
I have to understand.
The whole point of this side quest was to observe the behavior of other demons so that I might better sell wares to them.
I look at the long line of women hidden behind the staging area, lining up toward the platform. Seemingly humans of every background and age fill the auction block, every eye filled with despair. Notably, none of the women fight their fates—none push away from the line, toward the brutally equipped guards, who might bludgeon them with maces at the first sign of resistance.
“Seven hundred thousand,” a booming, unrecognizable voice calls out from somewhere in the crowd.
I watch, trying to catch even a glimmer of the attraction other demons must feel. If any of this is to mean anything, I can’t simply chalk up this obsession to madness. I have to understand what drives this obsession.
“One million nodal.”
The demon, who earlier cut off the elderly xaphan, unconcerned with his safety, roars over the crowd’s commotion.
It brings silence to the crowd. Several xaphans and demons, who had cut in between the adversarial bidding war, are left speechless. The xaphan is left rasping on the ground.
“Sold to Mr. Xerneas Xenophil!” the auctioneer calls out, shoving the woman over.
Briefly, I see her pleading with him, as though hoping to find a grain of sympathy in the system that would gladly ruin her.
She does not look happy, her movements staggered against her chains.
He seems wickedly gleeful, his smile catching his charcoal-black eyes.
“Oh, the things I’m going to do to you,” he says, swatting the woman on the rear.
She winces in pain. I can see even from a distance the thoughts raging through her mind.
She knows what’s in store for her, I think.
And yet still, she doesn’t fight—doesn’t protest in the slightest against her possible death. Then again, fighting will still lead to her death, just in a more hasty fashion.
I shake my head in disbelief. A younger-looking woman, whose short red hair captures the bright light of the morning sun, steps up to the block, prodded by guards.
And I watch more or less the same scene play out again.
They scream over each other, unconcerned for each other’s safety or camaraderie, until they win the woman, who will only reluctantly enjoy their company. I wonder how many have died here, trying to obtain this vexing prize.
There is no life left in any of these women’s eyes. They are pale, drained of their wills, their bodies mere flesh.
I can tell by the way they carry themselves that they aren’t fit for labor. They’re not well-fed and can barely stand.
I’m tempted to step up and ask one of these demons what he values so much about these women. I can only speak for myself in saying it, but I wouldn’t pay for the honor of their hesitant company.
That’s when I catch their movements out of the corner of my eye. I tear myself between the scene playing out on repeat and my intended quest.
I shrug. The more I watch, the less I feel like I understand.
As much as I try, I’m not sure I’m ever going to understand how human women titillate these xaphans and demons. And that frustrates me.
Because while I can’t see the entrepreneurial value of these women—they don’t offer much in the way of labor, and can’t assist in many other ways either—I can see the value in understanding the motivations of the men who value them.
I manage to recover the bag mostly intact. One of the young children guides me to where he’s stashed it, inside the hollow of an old and gnarled tree.
Finally able to check it off my list, I load the nimond beans into my carriage, ready to depart.
