Vibration. Awareness. Sight. Color. Shapes. Self - no, Soha - saw.

"Hello djinn." The words were strange, but also familiar; they weren't the words Soha knew, but Soha knew these words. A delicate pale pink face stared down at Soha, lver hair spilling from the scalp; the eyes were ... green. Soha stared.

"I am Devona. You may call me Devona, or Mistress, or Mistress Devona." A lilting voice, with a sonorous quality Soha had not encountered before. Soha tried to sit up, and found it impossible. Soha tried to look away from Devona's face, to find the restraint, and found this similarly impossible. "You are now one of the Tuatha, and you will accord yourself properly."

The face moved away from Soha's, but the inability to move did not change. The words that Devona had spoken were ... they were not the djinn language; there was no equivalent word for "mistress", in particular, a word that carried two unrelated meanings, referring to both a relationship of disparate power, and also that Devona had a female form. The combination was very inappropriate by djinn etiquette.

The ... restraint faded. Soha sat up, looking around. Devona was the only other occupant of the simply-furnished room; the peri was dressed in green and white, with green and blue wings spreading out behind; the white was some kind of top garment, with puffy sleeves, over which green straps held an elaborate emerald-green dress. The cut of the clothes emphasized that Devona was female in a manner that was as inappropriate as the language itself.

"She rises." Soha immediately resented the pronoun. Devona watched Soha, lips curling up into a smile that Soha found resentment for as well. Soha tried pressing Devona's mind still - but couldn't quite get ... the vibrations ... the vibrations of Soha's own mind wouldn't quite form into the right shape to form the will. There were ... other vibrations there, now. Shapes and forms that did not belong in Soha's mind; one was Devona's vile language.

Soha halted the attempt, and looked around again, studying the room, looking for a more traditional weapon. The plain room, the walls composed of cut wood, painted white but still showing texture, was lit by a hole cut in one wall - a window, Soha had seen these in the villages - through which light filtered in. There was a small wooden dresser, a copper chamberpot sitting on top of it, and a flat expanse of fabric, rectangular, spread across the floor. The only other interruption in the walls was a simple wooden door, with a bronze handle, set in a wooden frame. They were unpainted.

The floor itself was flat and dull, gray. Soha didn't recognize the material, but it was hard and unyielding. There was no ceiling; rafters rose towards the rest of the building, the walls just stopping a few feet up, a skeletal framework of rafters crossing overhead. There were quiet noises filtering in from above, indistinguishable murmuring voices.

Devona watched Soha's eyes explore the room, the ... Soha's mind rebelled, trying to think of Devona as ... the mistress looking pleased with herself. Soha froze, mental attention swiveling to the alien vibrations. They interfered with Soha's ability to think; there, and there. Even language; Soha tried, and found that djinn words wouldn't form.

Their word for djinn, as Soha was forced to think it in place of the proper word, was offensive. It meant a small flying insect, that was part of a collective, and collected sugar from flowers. It could also refer to a small crawling insect, also part of a collective, that scavenged the dead.

Soha's attention returned to ... Devona, who nodded slowly; the ... Devona had been watching Soha with interest, nodding to ... this language was infuriating and vile.

"Very good. You are truly awake. Now that I have your full attention. One." And Devona's voice shifted from sonorous to serious abruptly. "Your name is Imogen. We aren't having any of your hive names; we are each individual here, and your name will reflect that." S-. S-. No. She found it impossible to look away, now. The vile language was better than this alien name. Or to speak, as ... as she attempted to protest.

"Two. You will do as you are told, not that you will have much opportunity to do otherwise. The less you resist the geis, the easier you will find your new life here; the less it must bind you, the less it will.

"Three." And Devona paused, smiling, the sonorous quality returning to the ... to Devona's voice. "Three, you simply must dress more nicely than that. Whoever decided that you should wear red with red skin? The blue at least works." And then serious again. "Now. Say your name."

"Sss." Through clinched teeth, she struggled. And then the struggle ceased, with something like the sensation of her mind flipping end over end. "Imogen." The voice was hers.

"Good. And you will do as your are told?"

"Yes, Mistress Devona." She found she couldn't even struggle - nor choose her words.

"Good." Devona's face and voice softened. "Truly, child, it is easier if you do not struggle so. You may think you are chained - that is wrong, but if you must think so, realize that you do not have the most freedom in chains when you have pulled them tight around your throat. Now, then, say your name again."

"Imogen."

"Again."

Imogen followed Devona out of the room, and into a hallway; the mistress took a turn, and another turn, bringing them into a room that was full of clothing suspended by wire from a long wooden contraption, which Devona began to intently shuffle through, quietly speaking to herself.

"Green would be a bit much with that red skin, unfortunately. What about yellow? No, no. White, yes. Maybe ... ah, yes, here. Blue works well after all."

And then the mistress began pulling out clothing similar to her own; white shirts, and blue dresses, holding them up to Imogen's chest, tilting her head this way and that. Imogen watched silently, not trusting her own mind enough to consider anything too carefully.

Devona's wings fluttered suddenly, and a shirt and dress, held together, were set aside, rather than being hung up again. And continued, until eight pairings of shirt and dress were set aside. The last, Devona still held.

"Get out of those vile rags, girl." Imogen didn't wait for the geis to tighten itself - Devona had been correct, at least in that, if she let the geis force her, it would hold control for a time after - and began pulling the bloodstained and dirty clothing she was wearing off. Devona paused, eyeing her. "You need a bath first."

The water was cool; the room holding the bath was private, although a ... man, walking through the hallway, had given Imogen a ... look, when Devona had pulled her to a different room. Devona had hit him when she had noticed! Imogen didn't know what to make of any of this.

Imogen cleaned quickly, using the small bar of soap, while Devona chattered about cuts of clothing, and djinn lack of style. Imogen tried her best to ignore the woman, but found it difficult; she couldn't not listen, but she did her best to let the words float by.

Imogen dried with a towel Devona provided - it was white, or at least had been in the past - and then Devona helped her dress, pulling the shirt on over Imogen's head, carefully. "Oh, we'll need to dull these horns, or you're going to rip all of your nice clothing to tatters."

It fit tightly around the chest, pulling her chest up and out in a way that Imogen was thoroughly unhappy with. She didn't resist the blue dress that Devona carefully draped around her - a cinch about the waist tightened, and the long skirts flared out around her feet.

"Ah, good. Let's take a look at you now, won't we?" The mistress pulled Imogen this way and that, looking her over. "Yes, that'll do nicely. We'll need to find some shoes that will ... fit you. Oh dear. Come over here, and take a look at yourself. Now isn't that lovely?"

Imogen looked into the mirror Devona pulled her to, obeying the instruction to look without resisting. She hadn't really seen her own face since she had first awoken, when the djinn had used a mirror to help her become aware of the space that she occupied. The waters of the bath house reflected light, but there just hadn't been much light there.

Her face was thin and angular, with a narrow upturned nose; yellow eyes looked back at her. She was a paler red than other djinn, and two spiral horns rose above her ears, rising from just over her brow line.

The shirt and dress pulled her bosom up and forward, as well as pulling her breasts together; no djinn had anything like Devona's ample anatomy, but Devona had chosen the clothing to accentuate it, for reasons that failed Imogen.

Why are the ... these people so obsessed with what body shape they have? Even their language reflects it. Imogen didn't understand, at all. She continued looking at herself, mindful to avoid the geis. She had thin and delicate wrists and hands, fingertips ending in slightly darker red nails that ended in points; her hands were likewise accentuated by the baggy sleeves of the white shirt.

Imogen looked at her feet, which were fine, then at Devona's - quickly back again, before the geis caught her. What was wrong with her feet? But Devona was wearing shoes, a delicate little wrap that barely covered the top of her feet, a bright green. Maybe the claws would be a problem there.

"Aren't you lovely, my dear? Out of those dreadful garments and into something lovely. We do need some kind of ornamentation for these horns, though." Devona reached up and brushed fingertips along one; Imogen stared at her through the mirror. That was ... very rude. "They're quite lovely, in their own fashion. Ah, but first, let's do something about those feet."

Devona pulled Imogen to another room, where she utterly failed to try to trim the talons. Imogen found her first real opportunity for rebellion, here, and smiled at the failure. It didn't last, and she found herself in a more open shoe, with straps, before they moved on to find "ornamentation" for her horns.