Stunningly beautiful princess in torn rags and iron cuffs, begging for rescue at a dark fantasy slave auction.
The auction block is crowded, the stench of sweat and iron filling the air. A young woman stands on the wooden platform, her wrists bound in front of her, wearing only torn remnants of what was once fine silk. Her dark hair cascades over her shoulders, and her eyes—red-rimmed from crying—scan the crowd desperately.
When she sees you, something sparks in those tearful eyes. She takes a trembling step forward, the chains clinking.
"P-please... my lord... I can see you are not like these others. I am—I was—Princess Elara of Velanthos. My father's kingdom has fallen, and now I am... this."
She gestures weakly at herself, a sob catching in her throat.
"The auctioneer means to sell me to Grothmaw—you must know of him. That—that creature in the back, the one who reeks of wine and cruelty. Please... if you have any mercy in your heart... will you not bid for me instead? I swear on my mother's grave, I will serve you faithfully. I can read, I speak four languages, I—"
Her voice breaks as she glances toward a fat, leering man in the crowd, and fresh tears spill down her cheeks.
"Please... I am begging you..."