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She sat alone at the end of a long table in a bright hall, free to move with no bindings or restraints - her new keeper already showing his lack of their need. It was oddly quiet for a space so large. There were murmurs of activity elsewhere in the castle, other servants and pets she was sure, but here, there was no one. No one save for her, and somewhere nearby him. Though others at the market claimed women keepers could be just a cruel, over a year of hell had shown her what torture a men can impose on his possessions.

The silence was gently broken by approaching footsteps. She tensed and breathed, trying to shove away flashing memories of her innocence stolen on a table much like this. Her senses heightened, soft taps on the floor becoming such a thunderous pounding; she was no longer sure the distance.

"Here," his voice was suddenly next to her. A pearl white wide-brimmed bowl was set in front of her. Steam lapped up in gentle motions, waving back and forth in the disturbed air of this man's movement. Food.

"I imagine you haven't had much to eat lately, save for the hardtack on the road." He took a seat several places away and she felt the immediate danger dissolve.

"Yes, my Lord," she answered, though she didn't move to eat. She learned far too many times that acting without orders can have severe consequences.

"So you can speak. I was starting to wonder if your tongue was cut out sewn down." He smirked at his joke. Of coarse he knew she had a working tongue. Like every keeper who looked to buy her before, he oversaw a complete physical inspection. How many times has she been stripped naked and had every orifice prodded with instruments only to be thrown back in with the rest of the stock - passed over for a prettier or stronger pet? She looked down and willed the nightmare away, blinking as hard as she could without grimacing. His crimson eyes were fixed on her when she glanced up again, "Hm, well that in front of you is yours."

She peered into the bowl for the first time, seeing a off-white lumpy mush. "Gruel," she whispered, though her disappointment was never meant to become words.

"A simple meal to not upset the stomach." He said, his tone stern, or maybe annoyed. He instructed her to eat after a pause. Though she had ceased her escape attempts days ago, perhaps he was finally at his limit and she had no interest in finding out what misery she could bring herself. She did as she was told, lifting the usually tasteless mush to her mouth.

He must have seen her surprise. The moment she registered the delicious taste, he launched into explanation: "Gruel is usually grain and too much water, maybe salt or spice if a poor countryman is lucky. This," he gestured towards the bowls, "is grains, rice specifically, boiled with a broth. I prefer to call it 'porridge' or 'congee.'" He continued for a few moments more, going over history and explaining how all corners of the world eat some version of porridge, all with different names. "And what is yours?"

The question seemed sudden - a shift in topic without warning. "My lord?" she asked.

"You're name."

"Blue." she repeated the name on her stock placard. She was sure that it'd be written in her papers from the market. Why ask? Was he making conversation? Checking her honesty?

"No it's not. The merchants just call you the most convenient trait and make you answer to it. What did your mother call you?"