He was one of the lucky ones, he was always told. He was the apply of the alpha’s eye, the cream of the crop of hooved slaves. But he didn’t feel lucky. He was harshly trained to be light as a spring breeze since the day he could walk, his tender body brutally moulded into a living sculpture that would please the leaders of the clan. He knew it wouldn’t last, that all slaves would eventually grow up and grow old, their bodies sagging into less pleasing forms, and there would be no use for him after that. But for now, he would dance. He took a step forwards, raising his arms above his head to display the sharp line of black fur that defined his vulnerable neck and narrow shoulders, and separated the pearly white of his belly from the sandy tone of his back. The toe of his hoof hit the ground without a sound and the fawn quickly followed through, taking three more steps across the improvised stage. The bangles along his narrow horns jingled slightly. They were the focal point, jutting back from his head like scimitars. His attendants had spend hours polishing and buffing them until they shimmered like obsidian in the torchlight. The decorations along the bony protrusions had not been chosen lightly – rings and thin chains of tarnished silver coupled with ornaments of dull jade and uncut opal – as so not to detract from the real gem: the dancer himself. The natural curve of the horns led the eyes of his audience down to his face, the W-shape of the black fur contrasting sharply with the whites of his nose and cheeks. From there, the black stripe along his body acted like a map, leading the eye down the side of his lithe, effeminate form down to his slender legs, the stick-like limbs interrupted by more bold bands of black fur. Hooves clapped against the ground again, the tips grinding into the dirt as the fawn spun, curving his back to show off his pristine white torso, untouched by the ravages of adolescence. The translucent veil draped over his shoulders and lingered behind him in the air as he twirled, almost like an afterimage. His black wispy tail barely covered his exposed rump, and he had to remind himself to swish it back and forth, teasing his audience that little bit more, bending over to further expose himself and give the viewers a quick peek at his tight pucker and firm sac nestled underneath. Another half-turn, and he finally faced his audience. He swallowed hard, quickly reminding himself what a single mistake would mean. don’t make eye contact, he thought, closing his eyes for a moment to refocus. He bent over again, scooping his head up to make the bangles on his horns rattle again, drawing his hands slowly up the front of his legs and around his dark groin, tantalizingly close to his velvet sheath. The audience wasn't impressed, he could feel it. He was doing something wrong. Was he moving to quickly, or two slowly? Was he revealing too much too soon, or not revealing enough? He needed a way to step up his performance, fast. Thinking quickly, he twirled again and jumped, stretching his legs out in a wide arc, almost touching the bottom of his hoof with the tip of his delicate fingers. That would impress them, he thought! And it would have, had his polished hoof not betrayed him. He looked down as he slipped, his leg splaying out from under him and sending him wildly off balance. His arms, so perfectly poised, flailed wildly in an attempt to brace himself that came too late, and he skidded to an unfortunate halt in a graceless pile. He let out a startled bleat, and started to sob, raising his hands to his face before the pain even had a chance to set in. He wasn't crying because it hurt – he was crying because it was over. He was over. He'd seen what happened to the rest of his kind, oh, the audience made sure of that. He knew how the other dancers slipped and tripped before getting torn to sloppy bits by his captors and their foul pets. If he was lucky, he'd be given a chance to plead, even beg for his life, but he'd never dance again. And if he couldn't dance than he'd have to learn to satisfy his captors in other ways, methods too vile to even consider. By all the gods, he could see them, circling like carrion birds, their shadows looming over him. Never had he felt so small. Far worse, however, was their smell. His captors smelled like blood and sweat, normally just a mild inconvenience but with them getting so close it was enough to make the poor fawn gag. Their very presence was suffocating. He felt their vile claws and wretched teeth pulling and groping at his fur, pulling and ripping the thin fabric tangled around his body. The fawn fought mightily, but he was no match for his captors. In a matter of moments he could feel claws closing around his throat. He opened his mouth to let out one last pitiful bleat before the darkness closed in utterly, and a cold numbness began to spread through his extremities. It was almost a relief, in a strange, morbid way. At least they'd be finished with him soon . . . right?