#bawde

Bawde had never been the daughter that her parents wanted. She was adopted, as most Glukkon children are, but unlike most Glukkon children, she failed to bring her mother and father any form of tangible wealth or prestige. Her parents, desperate to climb the ranks of high society, had spent years courting favour with wealthy duchesses, dukes, and factory magnates, hoping to secure a foothold amongst the elite. Bawde, with her striking appearance and sharp mind, was meant to be their ticket in — a bargaining chip in an advantageous marriage to an industrialist out in West Mudos.

Among Glukkons, marriage was never about love — seldom even about personal preference. It was a business transaction, a merger of wealth and influence: a carefully negotiated contract where personal happiness had no place. Bawde had known this all her life. She had been raised to understand that her worth lay in what she could offer: a well-bred Glukkon daughter with the right connections, could do wonders for her family. But what they never understood — what they refused to see — was that Bawde had never wanted men. She had no desire for them, no tolerance for their hands, their groping, their leering expectation of ownership. The very thought of binding herself to one in marriage had made her stomach turn.

And her suitor? He had been the worst of them all. Repulsive in his entitlement, his assumption that she belonged to him, that her body, her life, were simply another asset he could claim as his own. She had endured the talks, the courtship, the hollow displays of propriety. She had gritted her teeth through dinners where brushed against her as if testing the quality of a new acquisition. But in the end, she couldn’t do it. Wouldn’t. She has always preferred the company of women, for what little stimulation it offered. So she walked away at 25, leaving her suitor at the proverbial altar, and thus tarnishing her family's name.

Rather than endure the humiliation of her defiance, her parents cast her out, turning their backs on the daughter who had refused to do what was necessary.

Bawde found herself on the streets, stripped of privilege and protection. But what should have been her downfall became her liberation. She learned quickly — how to survive, how to negotiate, how to carve out space in a world that had all but discarded her. She adapted to the underbelly of society, making deals, forging alliances, and amassing influence over time where her family had seen only disgrace. She had started as a Malkin* — a young, inexperienced female Glukkon who was yet to establish herself in high society. But Bawde was never one to conform. She embraced the filth of Nolybab, rolling in it, and she began to build herself from the ground up, establishing a smoking and games parlour in the city where desperate Glukkons gambled away fortunes while puffing on the finest cigars. She learned that every Glukkon needed something to exploit, and indentured Mudokon servants — for whom her parents had only ever owned one or two — were the currency of choice.

Bawde had never considered herself sentimental — she understood the rules of the world she lived in. But that changed the day she attended a Vykker showcase of newly captured/hatched Mudokon younglings. Among them was a seven-year-old hatchling, paraded before wealthy backers as a 'Queenling'. The Vykkers boasted of their genetic experiments on the 'exhibits' — enhanced servility, aesthetic alterations to better suit Glukkon tastes, and this one, they claimed, was destined to be an ornamental 'Crimp'*, having already undergone invasive surgeries on her spine, legs, and beak, with a list of more surgeries to come.

Bawde, despite her cold pragmatism, felt something stir — an impulse she barely recognised. It wasn't pity; she didn't care for Mudokons at all. But the powerlessness of the young girl, the clinical detachment of those who had sought to own her, rankled her in a way that she couldn't ignore. Perhaps it was the indignity of the whole affair, the sight of something being shaped against its will, much like Bawde had been. Or perhaps it was simply that the Queenling was hers now, because she had decided so.

She didn't have the wealth to win outright, even at 47, but she had other means. She played the bidders against one another, exaggerating the Queenling’s flaws — how unresponsive she was, how difficult she found simple commands. Her ploy worked well enough to drive down her price, but she still wasn’t the highest bidder. That title went to Malquo, a Glukkon industrialist with a penchant for extravagance and a reputation for sinking his wealth into extravagant displays of status.

Malquo, however, wasn’t entirely satisfied. He had expected something more refined, more docile — and to be fair, docile was definitely what the poor thing was — but the girl was stiff, uncooperative, and showed little sign of responding to commands. A Mudokon female was only worth the wealth she could complement, and a Crimp that didn’t know how to be ornamental was a wasted investment and a waste of sterilisation when she could have been sent to be breeding stock.

Bawde saw her opening. With carefully chosen words, she suggested a solution: the girl simply needed training. A finishing school for Mudokons was impractical, but she had the resources, the knowledge of high society, and a way to polish Paradise into something truly coveted. She had been nothing more than a Malkin, and now, she was a Socialite, so who better to train her? And if Malquo was reluctant? She sweetened the deal with well-placed flattery — no one would say Malquo had wasted his money if she ensured the girl was sculpted into something enviable.

With no better options, Malquo agreed — on the condition that the medical procedures planned for the girl continued. Bawde didn’t argue. She would take the child as her charge, shaping her for someone else’s ownership.

For the next eight years, the young Mudokon, named 'Peggy', was kept under Bawde’s roof, subjected to constant refinement — training to move, to stand, to bow with grace, to understand the absurd intricacies of Glukkon aesthetics. But she also endured far worse. The surgeries continued. The Vykkers worked on her regularly, reshaping her piece by piece. When she was a teenager, they experimented with breast enhancement procedures before forcing a quadruple mastectomy upon her, and they had shaped and broken and battered both her nose and her body even further. She was a weak thing. A fragile thing. But Bawde saw potential.

Bawde never stopped them. She had no love for genetic alterations, but that wasn’t the point. She had agreed to the terms, and she didn’t care what happened to the child. That was the lie she told herself. And yet, something about the girl unsettled her. Perhaps it was the way Peggy she barely responded to her own suffering, or the way she adapted, even in silence, as though she had known nothing else. Perhaps it was the way she followed Bawde so obediently, seemed to think of her as her mother.

By the time the girl was fourteen, and Bawde 53, Malquo’s interest had waned. The slow collapse of his fortune made him desperate to keep up appearances, but the debts had piled too high. That was when Bawde struck. Through carefully placed whispers and fabricated evidence, she painted Malquo as a financial liability — untrustworthy, weak, bleeding money from ventures he should have had under control. His empire crumbled swiftly. With debt collectors at his door and no allies left to salvage his wealth, he had no choice but to offload assets — including Peggy the girl.

Bawde bought her outright, and she named her 'Paradise'. Perhaps it was irony, or perhaps it was a quiet rebellion against the system that had carved them both into something unnatural, against their biological instincts that long been forgotten eons ago before the Glukkons had ever industrialised and taken the Mudokons captive. If she could not grant the girl freedom, she would at least grant her a name that tasted of it, even if it would never be more than a gilded illusion.

It wasn’t charity. It wasn’t some sentimental need to protect her. It was opportunity. Paradise was hers now, entirely, no conditions, no limits. She had shaped her, raised her, and in time, she would find a way to use her. And yet, when she looked at Paradise, she couldn't shake a thought she didn’t want to acknowledge.

From there, Bawde continued to rise. With Paradise as her ward, she played the long game — gaining favour in exclusive circles, amassing a network. She was known, but not yet powerful. Wealth alone did not grant status among Glukkon society; one needed influence and prestige and something that no one else could replicate. So, Bawde set her sights on Loss Fegas.

Loss Fegas was a city of spectacle where the richest Glukkons squandered fortunes in pursuit of excess. It was the perfect stage for Bawde to build something lasting. But she had no interest in running just another gambling den or back-alley lounge. No — she would create something irresistable, something that could hold the attention of the highest echelons of Glukkon society. With her experience with Paradise she employed her to assist in 'training' other Mudokons for high society, therefore accruing even more wealth. Under her tutelage, it became evident that Paradise was a natural-born leader — maybe due to being a Queen — and that she could utilise this.

After a few more years she established Madame Bawde's Menagerie, a burlesque and cabaret parlour unlike any other. It was opulent, seductive, and tailored to cater to the elite’s deepest appetites for novelty and luxury. But the real draw — the act that set it apart — was Paradise.

Bawde had spent years molding Paradise into something enviable, and now she would reap the rewards. She thrust her into the spotlight, showcasing her as the crown jewel of the Menagerie. Sure, she had never done anything like this before, but she could learn. And learn she did. Paradise became not merely a dancer — but a performer of absolute refinement, a spectacle of grace and mystique that left audiences enthralled, and she had truly come out of her shell and was able to talk with others too. She was exotic, untouchable, and effortlessly captivating, drawing in fortunes with every performance.

With Paradise’s success, the Menagerie became the place to be. The wealth it accumulated was staggering, and with that wealth came power. Bawde was no longer just a businesswoman — she had become a kingmaker, a broker of influence in Loss Fegas, someone whose favour was sought after rather than dismissed, like her family had dismissed her. And only then, when she had built something undeniable, did she ascend.

The title of Duchess was not bought — it was earned. And when Bawde finally claimed it, there was no one left to deny her place among the elite. She had outplayed them all.

She had no servants in the traditional sense — her girls, the ones who lived within her boudoir, worked for her 'willingly', knowing that under her patronage, they would never be mere ornaments to be discarded. But none were as loyal as Paradise.

Paradise was always her favourite.

Bawde had never intended to care for her. And yet, through all the years, all the performances, all the nights spent in whispered dealings and carefully laid plans, she realised a truth she could not shake. Paradise was hers — not just as an asset, not just as an investment, but as something more. Not quite a daughter. Not quite a possession, but something irreplaceable.

And Bawde, at her 67 years now, has been left controversially feeling quite fine about putting a lowly Mudokon in charge of her cabaret when she eventually must lay down and die—if only because no Glukkon, no matter how refined or ambitious, could ever truly replace her.

It was an affront, of course, for a Mudokon to inherit a place in Glukkon society, a final insult to the very structure that had once cast Bawde aside. But she had never taken in a Glukkon adoptee, never shaped another of her own kind to succeed her. Paradise was the only one who had been with her long enough, had learned her ways, had earned the right, even if it meant spitting in the face of tradition.

Bawde didn’t love Paradise, not beyond what she provided her in terms of wealth — love was a fool’s game, a weakness she had never indulged in. But if she had to name a successor, if she had to leave everything to someone, it would be to the only creature and confidant who had been hers from the start.