Preparation

I cut her hair again.

I did so once before, giving Jenny the moniker 'She' when we were in Jort's Ferry more than a year ago. I was more considerate about shape and style during that incident. I had intended for her to be seen then, just not as Jenny of Gor, once slave to a Tarnsman, once slave to a Builder. She would become 'She.' She had dark, short hair, cut in a short, but delightful style. It drew attention to the collar on her throat and the lines of her torso. I was pleased with the work that I had done. Last night, her hair was not cut for any aesthetic reasons. Since the time it was cut last, it had grown past her shoulders into a sleek, healthy mane. I bound up the ends in my fist and cut it, leaving her shoulders, once again, bare. I was not concerned about the aesthetics, neither the shape nor the style. It would be short. The ends discarded. I had a wealth of patience. Now, I am broke.

She is in the bowels of Samsara presently. There are only a handful of cells in that sub-level of the house, amid the pillars of the west foundation. It is scarcely frequented, but the events leading up to this were not unanticipated. The cell was prepared. There is bedding, fresh hay and an old blanket woven from the wool of the bounding hurt. Too, her name has been scratched upon the metal plate bolted to the bars. Past residents, occupants of that cell before her, were scratched off beforehand. Elise will be in charge of the day-to-day maintenance of the girl. Feeding her. Ensuring her hygiene does not become lax. That sort of thing.

"Can you handle this bitch?" I inquired.

"I think so, Master, yes. With a gag and a switch," she answered.

"You will be given a quirt," I informed her.

You can hold a woman's face in your hands and look directly into her eyes, telling her that she is owned, that it is futile to struggle. You can cuff her about the cheek, rattling her teeth as she is thrown to her side from the impact of the blow. You can beat her ass until she is striped from the back of her ankles to the top of her spine. Some, despite their apparent intelligence, do not learn. Some continue to manipulate, strategize and form agendas even when there is no rationality for it. Put them on half rations, assign them to modalities of she-quadrupeds, gag them, bind them, or command them to go about nude. None of it really matters. Some women will simply resist, refuse to be cognizant of their place. They need absolute proof that you own them. They will push, prod and test you. Debate, rationalize and qualify every action, incident and event in their life leading up to the moment of confrontation. 'Make me,' they seem to be saying. What they fail to understand is that you are not on their schedule. They are not entitled to goals or aspirations that are at cross-purposes with your own. They are, in the end, animals. Chattels. Beasts. In a word, slaves. If they continually veer toward obstinance, recalcitrance, and the folly of testing the patience of the one who owns them, the options left to a responsible owner are considerably reduced.

The Burning Question

originally posted March 29, 2007

We are well into En'Kara, nine days in to be exact, and it seems the revelry of the first hand has quieted down at last. Of course, the violence in the Garden District, the seemingly random murders and arsons, did its part to quell the excitement of the new year. I heard tell of a toy-maker's shoppe in the Central Cylinder area burning down as well. One could imagine the vacant stares, the silent screams of the dolls on their ledges, never-to-be purchased by some doting free woman for her daughter. How the little girl would have clutched that miniature facsimile of the woman she might one day become, in small slippers and brocaded robes, many veils to obscure her face. But the dolls sat still on their shelves, the flames devouring them, lick by hot lick. The toys of young lads would have faired no better. A wooden gladius would be ready kindling for the rest. It would glow hot and then crumble to ash in time, never to feel its hilt in the awkward grip of a young one emulating the Ubar or other such luminaries as Dietrich of Tarnburg. Will it continue unchecked?

Magistrate; Pastries; The Good Citizen

originally posted March 26, 2007

As of today, the sixth day of En'Kara, I am the Magistrate of the People. I may now add that to the growing list of roles that I fill; Poet, Playwright, Whoremonger, Magistrate of the People. I suppose it was no true feat to secure the office as I ran unopposed, but I am assured that at least one citizen, not myself, pledged a vote to put me in office. I received a nice bottle of Turian wine this morning with a note from the Lady Tamborn. She is of the Bakers. I like Bakers. They bake things. I am not much for pastries and the like, but it is not unpleasant to purchase a honeyed cake or some such thing for one's women now and again. Once per year or so. One must endeavor not to coddle them.

"Here is a bit of honeyed cake. Right then. Carry on."

Of course there are fellows that are wont to consent to every wheedle and every whine of their women. Scarcely does a slave have the icing licked from her lips before she is pleading for another taste. To each his own, but I cannot say that I understand it. Gruel is nutritious enough. And filling. It is designed to provide the nutrients a slave girl requires for the maintenance and health of her body. I cannot say that I am aware of it's taste, but I can aver that when I put the women on half rations they seem uniformly depressed. After a time, they will even beg for their full rations. That seems proof enough that it is palatable. Perhaps, to a slave, certainly a starving slave, it is even delicious.

I have finally finished the play, for which the first auditions were held the day before last. I have decided to call it The Good Citizen. As I suspected, with the first hand of En'Kara only now just ending, actors looking to fill the roles were sparse. I am confident the numbers in the coming days will increase. A second call for actors is scheduled for the end of this hand as well. I had thought one of the parts was well-suited to Phineahas, but I have not seen the fellow about for several hands. With the murders and arsons that have occured over the past three hands, I have started to wonder if the vagabond Story Teller told a tale that was taken the wrong way.

The Sleen; The Play; The Election

originally posted March 24, 2007

It will be a busy day today.

It is first light. I am on Aulus Street, at Samsara. The monster, Tasta, is with me. The last time she was here, she rooted around and sniffed at any room that was not locked. It is amusing, I admit, to see her wander in quite confident of herself, having discerned that she knows this place. It is easy to anthropomorphize such beasts, what with their expressions and attitudes, but it is hard to believe that there is any less intelligence behind that animal's golden eyes simply because she lacks the ability of speech. She's certainly vocal enough. I think even, at this moment, as I write about her, she is aware that I am doing so. Rather attentive, with her chin laid on her forepaws and her head cocked slightly to the left. Her ears, too, are perked. She is not to worry, however. I am not slandering her good name or even penning the slightest falsehood about her. Later this evening, I will send her after two of the girls; Elise and Cup. A simple, "Fetch Elise. Fetch Jenny" will do. From this domicile, she will move suddenly and swiftly to the other and compel both girls to return with her. The others will simply end their work days near Aulus Street and proceed directly to Samsara on their own. I have business in this district tonight.

I have yet to settle on a name or, indeed, to write the last few scenes, but I have put the notices up. Auditions for the next play begin this evening. There are two principle roles available and a few other minor, but important parts. It takes place in the Insula of Achiates. With the Waiting Hand just past and the festivities of the first hand of En'Kara still occuring, I have not had time to dress the set. Like the set of Agamedes, however, it will be spartan. It takes place entirely in one room of that cramped Insula. I generally start out with ideas for grand, sweeping epics, complete with elaborate set pieces and a cast of a hundred actors, the Priest-Kings know the stage has the capacity to withstand it, but in the end it comes down to the dialogue.

In addition to the business of the play, people will cast their votes on the Magistracy for which I have been nominated. It is still difficult to imagine that I would engage in politics at all, but I do have a belief that those of the lower castes deserve a voice that is their own. Their advocate should not be a disinterested party, chosen simply for the height of his caste. Their advocate should be one of their own.

It is time to start this busy day.

Graffiti

Vernal infernal
First day of the first turn
Novus Initium
No pardoned propitium
It burns
A furnace
An oven
Ashes left to feed the Garden soil.

Toil and trouble
There, amidst the rubble
Last Hand the blade drank from two
A quill-pusher left dead
A skin merchant's throat bled
The worm has turned
Piss and blood
And oh so much mud
No man is safe in his home.

Dew Drop
Dropping dew
Then the blade turned and dropped you
Erstwhile cup companion
Found Lucius abandoned
Pilfered and poked and run-through
Eighteen days in
It started and continues anew.

Are there osts in the alley?
Black rain in the valley
Of the narrow and twisted
Should-be-resisted avenues
Brush the sing-song from your shoulders
There's your pride before the fall
It is a murder by numbers
That humbles you all.

By Design

originally posted March 21, 2007

It has been a quiet hand, by design. I thought as much this morning as I cleared away the brak from the front doors of the Boarding House, setting it alight that it would burn itself to ash on the stones. I then washed the pitch myself, scrubbing it down to the white washed wood. This was before dawn, still dark, done before tor-tu-gor had its say and the bars started ringing. Before the people began to crowd the street, laughing and singing and carrying on. I always have trouble transitioning on the first day of En'Kara. There is a switch for some. Somber for five days and then jubilant, quite suddenly. Perhaps it is because I spend much of these five days recollecting the unpleasant things. The things I no longer speak of.
In a few moments, here at Samsara, I will wake the girl, Joy. She is on the woven mat at the foot of my couch in this too-big domicile. I remember Plythias, often, in the morning. He was a Worker of Glass and something of a genius at it. The colored panes that form my window to the garden in back of the house are most beautiful in the morning, when the sun first hits them. I think he once told me the significance of the pattern, but it is something lost to memory. It casts pleasant, colored light on the tiles of my floor, across the face of an auburn-maned thing, causing her to stretch and yawn, not yet aware that I am watching her. She will know what today is. When the sun crests the Great Wall of the city and bars begin to ring, she will paint the door of this domicile green. I will burn the branches.
I've put a few coins in the hands of Darwin, asking him to purchase pastry for the girls kept in the Anbar. It is an indulgence, true, but one I am inclined to make at the start of the year. "Just one small, honeyed cake apiece" I told him.
"For...Tasta...too?" he asked uncertainly.
"If you value your life," I advised him.
It makes me smile as I sit here, imagining the recognition hitting her golden eyes, those of a monster, that she is not receive the indulgence of the girls below her on the chain. Better to sweeten the tongue of the sleen than to be something savory between her teeth. Taken literally or figuratively, those are words to live by.

Growth; Assignment; Discipline

originally posted March 19, 2007

During the Waiting Hand, I've given some of them; Elise, Portia, and Nirah, access to the scrolls in the library on the third floor. While it is a time for reflection, I feel that it can also be a time for study, for growth. A few of them were curious about the Tahari regions, no doubt due the appearance of such fellows at the En'kara Fair of last year. That Fair, strange as it seems, will be taking place in the coming hand. It has already been a year since Emily danced in the tent for the men of Gor, since Locutius and Nikos of Tyros read the words of a dissident poet on a world stage.
Six Girl was given a more traditional chore. She will write for me. She will recollect her place on the chain through a series of essays. This has worked before for her, helped to center her focus. I have given her a snatch of sheer silk, black in color, to work on as well. Each night, when she puts down the pen, she is to take up the needle and sew. She longs to wear more colorful silk, as her sisters on the chain, but she does not truly understand the color black. Until now, of course.
"Black is the color of solvency," I informed her. "To be 'in the black' indicates that you are able to pay your debts as they occur."
In short, it signifies that she is no longer struggling to breathe. That what is past is past. The debt she incurs, from the first day of En'Kara, will be current. She is, however, to finish the hem of that garment with an opaque line of red silk. Red is the color of debt. Lest she come to think she is free and clear, she will understand that she will always owe, every moment she wears the collar I've locked on her throat. Solvent of her past, she continues to incur debt with every breath. They all do.
Regarding Cup, I've finally tired of her ruse. I had intended to delay the inevitable until the last day of the Waiting Hand, but I am not so dramatic a fellow. She read for me last night, in her own, supposedly illiterate voice. It was a chapter of my choosing from a diary she kept in the not-so-distant past. When she was finished, I beat her ass. More specifically, I beat her back, her ass, and the back of her legs. While she knelt there, remaining in the position prescribed for discipline, the handle of the whip shoved cross-wise between her teeth, I supped. It was a humble meal of dry bread and water, a fitting repast for the Waiting Hand. In time, she was permitted the indulgence of kneeling before me. She was not permitted to sob or ball. There would be time enough for that in the confines of the room she shares with the sleen. If Tasta were amenable to suffering the sound of such tears, I judged it acceptable. As she knelt there, she was reminded to whom she belonged. She was reminded the primary duties of a slave girl. She was, too, reminded that she had been lax in the primary duties of a slave girl.
She can be an obstinate, little slut. It is my hope, however, that the lesson of the leather was well-received.

The Unpleasant Things

originally posted March 16, 2007

I remember the unpleasant things. The things I no longer speak of. The things I no longer write of. I remember them because they are not to be forgotten. They have had their part in making me what I am today, in how I have grown and will continue to grow, and in what I will become. There are delightful events in life and even ambivalent ones that have their role in shaping men, but it is the unpleasant ones that leave a lasting mark, a scar so to speak. Though I do not speak of them, though I do not write of them, I remember them. They are a part of me that cannot be taken from me, that I will not allow to be taken from me. I am Szol of the Poets, he is also a playwright and whoremonger, a land-owner and candidate. An advocate and dissenter. A patriot and dissident. My low caste origins do not limit my upward mobility. And the unpleasant things, those tragic and painful things, those things left unwritten and unsaid, have all played their part.

Piss & Blood

originally posted March 14, 2007

"Tal, little fellow," I said to him.
He did not reply. Urts rarely do. He is a handsome little sod, for the filthy, little bugger that he truly is. Rather curious, too. Apparently, I am fascinating to dirty rodents with a nervous tic."I have no food for you," I informed him politely. It does not hurt to be polite. Why should I waste his entire day, only for him to discover there may have been a morsel elsewhere that he has forsaken simply to entertain my company? He does not seem dismayed by the news, however. As I write, he stands on his hindlegs, forepaws up in front of him, sniffing nervously at the air. I know what he smells.
I am up early this morning, sitting on the front stoop of the Boarding House in the Anbar. So much occurs in this district that is either beyond the Reach of Order or simply not acknowledged. Yes, people turn their noses up at it. I eke out an honest living here, putting several of the animals I own to work each day from the first light to the last. I expect Portia and the Six Girl will be hurrying out to their appointed neighborhoods, the taste of gruel fresh on their tongues, eager to earn. The two of them are kept out of doors longer than their chain sisters. Others are kept inside, servicing walk-up clientele. Still others, Nirah for example, have peripheral duties. She will ready the gruel each morning. On days that I am here overnight, she will prepare my morning repast as well.
It smells like piss out here. It really is not an attractive neighborhood during the day. The allure of the lamps and the heady scent of a whore's perfume, the colorful language and spirited, brutal fisticuffs that color this neighborhood with the snuffing of Lar Torvis are not evident in the morning. Only the result of it all. Piss. And blood. Piss and blood. A drunk sleeping it off two doors down on against the outside wall of the tavern of which I can never quite recall the name. The name has weathered off the door, but the place is frequented regularly enough. Those that cannot, or will not, afford a certified Red Door Whore content themselves with the offerings to be had in that little piece of paradise. The girls are not bad stuff. I would not wish to slander the good name of the place of which I cannot recall the name. They are simply not three copper an ahn diversions.
In time, just before first light, just before the black girl and Six begin their workday, the street sweepers and cleaners will make their attempts. Or they won't. Some days the filth and detritus simply piles up. A magistrate and his men, similarly, may make their rounds. Or not. In any case, should the fellow and his men deign to make their appearance, it will be at a more civil hour. Perhaps the tenth or eleventh ahn. There are drunks to rouse, like the aforementioned fellow at the aforementioned tavern, of which I cannot recall the name. Some days there are murders to discover and, purportedly, to investigate. The alley seems clear, however, of slumped bodies. There is only piss. And blood. And a drunk fellow sleeping it off.
As you look around a district such as this, you realize that the careful planning of an area like the District of the Central Cylinder does not exist here. As there is a need, structures are built or torn down. In some cases a fire or a collapse is the impetus for new construction. As treacherous as this place may be, it does not want for residency. It is inexpensive to live here. When one insula crumbles, another is sure to crop up atop the ashes and rubble of the former.
While the thieves, vagrants & killers sleep, Szol of the Poets holds court. A chittering urt, a sleeping drunk, a puddle of piss and the blood-soaked street are my audience.

Waiting; Darwin; Quota

originally posted March 13, 2007

"If you would take the blonde one and Nirah out one of the eastern gates, that would free up a good part of my day," I asked of Darwin this morning.
"I will find them there, then?" he asked.
"That is usually where I fetch them, yes," I answered him.
There are brak bushes out that way. I do not know if it is the shadow of the red Voltai or the ferrous soil that let's that nasty shrubbery thrive there, but thrive it does. It is not until the end of this hand that I will need the branches, but I will need them for two domiciles. It seems like only a few hands since the doors and eaves were repainted, Samsara in vibrant green and the Boarding House in scandalous red, but they both will be pitched and washed white again.
"I don't know that I will be around much the next few days," I mentioned to the former Cloth Worker of Tabor.
"Between the sleen and the Warrior, I think your business is in good hands," he mentioned.
"You are hardly the wretch that you once were in the dungeons of Thentis," I noted.
"I suppose that is true. My thanks," he said with a smile.
An easy sort of smile that comes only from confidence, from rightness with nature, from oneness with self.
"You stood well in the Valley of Saleria," I told him. "I have not forgotten that."
When the Caravan of the Merchant Vesutto of Venna was attacked, bandit tarnsmen from Treve bringing bolt and flame onto the wagons and tents under the modest glow of the Prison Moon, the wretch from the sub-levels of the House of Clark, a slave that was freed by my request, comported himself with pride. With dignity. Under the tutelage of Mathor of Ar, he was no longer the craftsman who had his family home sacked and pillaged by pirates on some Genesian Coast island. He was not the thrall too weak to draw the oar of a galley, nor the miserable simp in the dank and moldy underworld, penned in a Thentian cell. He did his part to secure my property, defend the perimeter of our camp and, in general, fulfill the duties prescribed to him. He does so to this day. He seems happy now, or as happy as a fellow might be when one is as far from home as he is, but he has made it work. I know, for example, from friends of mine, that he frequents the taverns in the Garment District, sharing cups with fellows of his caste. I do not regret impressing the favor of the good will I'd earned in Thentis to loosen the shackles on his wrists. Every man stumbles. Some stumble harder and fall farther than others. They all deserve an opportunity to reconcile themselves, to recall what they once were and aspire to be once again. Darwin is no exception.
"Have them wear the rep-cloth camisks," I said as an aside.
There was no sense ruining the silk.
"Of course," he nodded.
"Starting tonight," I added, "I am going to keep them on the street an extra two ahn. Up their quotas by five tarsks."
He seemed surprised by the decision, but merely nodded. He is a nice fellow. I am a bit more pragmatic than he might be, but that pragmatism, after all, pays his salary.
"They won't be earning at the beginning of next hand," I reminded him.
He smiled, understanding, then, the need for them to ramp up their productivity in the short term.
"I will let them know," he said.

Productive Musings

originally posted March 12, 2007

I have kept my own counsel of late, spending an increasing amount of time in the halls of Samsara. I sought the quiet there, the solitude. Which is odd. It was once a very busy place. We were, on the surface of it, a haven for artists and craftsmen. Truthfully, however, our doors had been open to most. A Physician and his free companion, even, had deigned to live within our walls. Which reminds me. I need to corral the coffle and take them for an annual once over. I am starting to digress. Samsara. I have spent the last two hands here for her solitude. I needed the time to write, to hone the dialogue of the next production. I still do not have the final scenes written, but I am fairly certain the direction I will take. I haven't stayed completely away from the Boarding House. I still have a business to run, to tend to, but I have entrusted Mathor and Darwin to handle the day to day affairs. As the Waiting Hand approaches, I find my mind wandering a bit too much to deal with the day to day management of two domiciles. They are good bitches, for the most part, I don't suspect either of the two of them have had much difficulty keeping them in line. I have not, at any rate, been informed of any extraordinary recalcitrance. I think I will belt them all during the Waiting Hand. It was not an issue last year as we were afield of Ar, traveling to our eventual destination of the Sardar, but it is too grand a distraction, lovely whores, for the men of Ar at a time when reflection is the order of the day. There is less monetary profit in reflection, but wealth of other means seems to find its way to the man who takes the time to consider the course of his life. Yes, I think I will belt them all. From the bottom whore to the first girl.
I was out early this morning...or late last evening, depending upon your point of view, taking a walk as the first rays of Lar-Torvis warmed the stones. I was pleasantly surprised to see that I was, indeed, nominated for the position of Magistrate of the People. There was my name, the name of a Poet, a fairly low caste, in contention for a position in the political arena. It gives me pause, but the position was created to give a voice to those who share my status of low caste. I wonder what qualifies me for such a task, but then I wonder, too, who better?

She is Cup. Only that.

originally posted February 27, 2007

I have made the decision in the last several days that 'She is Cup. Only that.' The journey with Mathor and the sleen did not jar her memory. Being amongst the slaves of the chain, none of which she's known a short duration and some of which she's known from virtually acquisition, did not jar her memory. The city of Ar, undeniably fantastic and beautiful, indeed glorious, as it is has done nothing to awaken her. The Anbar District, the Boarding House, the Stadiums and stalls, alleys and thoroughfares, scent, sounds and distinct cultural flavor of the city have all failed to rouse her broken mind.
I have made attempts to coax her memory with minimal success. There are small lights within the fog, but nothing to convince her she is not precisely the woman she thinks she is. She believes that she is 'Kes' a slave girl from the Mountain Door Tavern in Harfax who was once a free woman in Besnit. She is not dissuaded by the fact that she cannot, with any veracity, recall the name of her father or her brothers, nor of their caste. These things do not exist, not on the planet, but she is convinced that they must. The Physicians of Port Kar did their work well on the recalcitrant, little barbarian. They were not, however, thorough. They did not believe she would be found. They did not understand the tenacity, the business acumen and ethics of a mere Poet, Playwright and Whoremonger of Ar. What were the odds that I would send a paid man and a hunting sleen across the Northern Plains to find and fetch her? They found little reason, I suppose, to fill in her history further than they did. It is a simple thing to say to a girl, 'Curiosity is unbecoming in a kajira.'
She is broken, but she is returned. And, for the moment, she is Cup. Only that.
And having written this, I know how to proceed.

Five of Eight

originally posted February 26, 2007

I've completed five scenes of the next play. I believe there will be seven, possibly eight by the time I am finished. There are a few possibilities for the ending. The eventual length of the production will depend on the alternative I choose. I know that it will be set in the Insula of Achiates and features two principals, as did the last play. There will be two, possibly three other minor roles as well. As I will be taking on more actors, I intend to speak with Vesutto about accepting a lower cut. He did quite well with the take from The Fall of Agamedes at the Great Theater and continues to reap a healthy profit from the smaller scale productions in the playhouses of Venna. Perhaps he will be amenable to adjusting the terms of our business. His influence and financial backing, however, are substantial enough that I won't push the issue too far.
I have a part in mind for Phineahas, but I have not seen the fellow very often in the past few hands. I imagine it has to do with his freckle-nosed girl or the increased call for his story telling since his performance upon the Great Stage. Or perhaps each has a part in his absences of late. Still, I think it would be mutually beneficial to us both to have him follow up his performance upon the worn wood of the Tallux soon. I will make the effort to speak to the fellow in the next few days.
Achiates, or should I say the fellow managing his interests, by the way, was agreeable to using the specific location in the production. I think that he found the idea of his run-down tenements being featured, at least by name, on the world's finest stage, an excellent notion. No doubt, if the play is a success there will be interest in those apartments that tower above the District of the Alley of the Slave Brothels of Ludmilla. In the same manner that fellows of High Caste make the effort to visit the Red Doors of the Boarding House in the Anbar, simply to boast that they've spent an ahn between the thighs of one of the Poet's whores, I imagine that Achiates will find himself a slight boost in itinerant and tourist revenues from having his establishment's name on the lips of those who would otherwise have no cause to mention it.
"I have stayed in the Insula of Achiates, which was featured in a play by Szol of the Poets, which was produced upon the stage of the Tallux Theater. In Ar," you could imagine fellows saying. Or perhaps it is only me thatimagines such things. Still. Visualizing one's goals is the surest way to achieving them. It is a first step at any rate.

Six Confirms a Rumor

originally posted February 20, 2007

The Six Girl has been working the Stadium of Tarns and surrounding streets of late. The fellows there are a little rough trade, but good, hard-working sorts. Tarn Keepers. Leather Workers. 'Honest pay for an honest day' men. It is a good place to put a girl to good use. She has not failed to make her quota in the taverns and alleyways thereabout as yet.
Rather than have her wander around aimlessly with the advertisement embroidered across the rear hem of her silk, I have directed her to peddle herself in the taverns Green Faction riders and adherents patronize. The season will start soon and gossip tells that the Greens will have at least one new bird, first thought to be a tawny scrapper from the aeries of Thentis, but later discovered to be from the canopies of the rainforest. A green bird for the Green riders. Small and sleek with a nasty temperment. When I questioned the Six Girl, she confirmed what I had heard. Men tend to speak freely around slaves. They are only girls.
I am not, I should mention, a follower of the Green riders. My faction patch is silver. There is nothing nefarious about sending a whore into the den of my faction's rivals. She earns well there and my curiosity is sated. The Green faction was good last season and promises to be the chief obstacle for the Silvers, if they are to prevail when the points are all tallied at year-end. I do not doubt that men of the competing factions have their own way of gleaning such information from the Silvers. I am not one to bet heavily, but many do. It is well they bet, in such instances, not only with their hearts but with an informed mind.

Broken

originally posted February 14, 2007

"She is broken," I heard Portia say.
It was not to me, but to sisters of her chain. I think they are pleased to have her returned, but baffled as to what has become of her. Last evening as I spoke to her, the girl who is no longer called Jenny, I saw the doubt in Elise's eyes for the first time. It is a difficult thing to describe, but an easy thing to read. They are only women. Such things are transparent to masters. She wondered if it might not be Jenny; if it might truly be another woman. She shook the notion soon enough. There are more than physical traits and psychological cues that make up women. There are intangibles.
Cup was commanded to fetch wine. She did so and, learning quickly from a cuff delivered to her on a previous evening, she made an effort to offer the wine as a slave offers wine to a man; with deference, with beauty. I was not inclined to rattle her teeth with the back of my hand. She feared that I would be so inclined. She made an effort. The effort was duly noted. However, when my cup was empty she neglected to offer another drink to me. In pointing out this negligence, she swiftly offered to refill my cup.
"I do not wish more wine," I informed her. "Well then why did you..." she started, and swiftly stopped.
I considered beating her again, but her ass still bears the stripes of the previous lashing. I thought a cuff would be appropriate, but it is my guess she still tastes the iron in her mouth from the last time she was backhanded. Cup, it seems, is broken. Up until this point, I had decided to treat her as any new slave. Whatever has happened to her, her mind seems to be a clean slate. So be it, was my sentiment. I own her. This her. That her. Whichever. I had not given it much thought. I own many women. I have business interests. I have other issues that demand my time. She is fit. She is not physically ill. Her tendency to question and second guess can be dealt with. What difference does this make, I asked myself. I started to question her.
"Where were you trained?" I asked. "Besnit, Master," she responded.
"At which House were you trained?" I pressed. "I...I...I do not know," she stammered, falling forward to a position of obeisance. There was a disconnect, that close to the surface, that she was not aware of. It is not, of course, uncommon for a girl not to know the House in which she was trained. Some slaves do not even know in which city they live if it is the will of the men that own them. Joy, for example, was unaware that she was delivered to the House of Clark in Thentis as a fresh barbarian and, from there, delivered to the House of Tenalion in Ar before the sale to her eventual 'first' master, a fellow called Kulgan, occured. We simply tell them what we wish them to know. They are only women. Let them have questions. We will provide the answers at our convenience. Or we will not provide the answers. They are slaves. Cup's disconnect, however, was not due to simply not being told. She had a disconnect. She did not know, but she also did not know why she did not know. She did not answer, "I was never told, Master," which would have been plausible. She answered, "I do not know." I pressed her further.
"How were you acquired?" I asked her. "From my father," she answered quickly enough.
"What was your father's caste?" I asked her. "I do not know," she panicked.
"What was the name of the House in which you were trained?" I asked her. "I do not remember, Master!" she cried.
"What was your father's caste?" I asked her again. "Of what city?"
She decided, finally, that he was a farmer. She was quite sure of it. The brand on her leg was not a brand at all. It was caused by an accident with a scythe. Her mother? She did not remember her mother when I asked of her. Then her mother was tall. Her mother was large-bosomed. She had three brothers. She was sure of it. Three. Some of what she told me, she believed. Some of what she told me, she speculated, answering because she feared not answering. The responses she believed and the responses she fabricated were obvious. It was not a matter of how quickly she responded or how assuredly, it was a matter of intangibles.
My Cup is broken.

Have Stories, Will Travel; Contingencies

originally posted February 13, 2007

The Story Teller informed me he was off on a journey at the end of the hand to the Sardar Mountains. It was at this time last year, perhaps a few hands earlier, that I set off. We were well across the Vosk, as I recall, at the time of The Waiting Hand. I did not ask him, but I assume he intends upon attending the En'Kara Fair. If he intends upon traveling through Venna, I will send word to Vesutto to expect him. The Fall of Agamedes is enjoying its fourth run there. No doubt he will be asked to reprise his roll of Julian on the smaller stage. Of course, I am getting ahead of myself. It is quite possible he will travel along the Eastern Road to Torcadino, taking the path north to the Sardar from there, rather than starting off along the Viktel Aria.
Of interest as well, he wishes me to look in upon his apartment in the District of the Central Cylinder. Apparently there are things that will need to be watered. A bred girl named Talender? He mentioned that it would delivered soon and required some tending. I admit I was rather tired and I may have misheard some of the details. In any event, that might raise some eyebrows, Szol of the Poets in the District of the Central Cylinder, apparently taking residence. I suppose they are flummoxed enough with an itinerant, fish-mongering, story-telling, actor from the Genesian Coast having the means and ways to own property in the very midst of higher society of Ar, but the circumstances of his ascendancy are already on the lips of gossips in the taverns and on the street corners city-wide.
This whole business, the actor taking his leave, will alter the course of my writing. I had some specifics in mind with regard to the lead character, for which he would have been uniquely suited. I will put those notes aside and start the process anew. If I am not able to follow up The Fall with another production featuring Phineahas, who won the audience's acclaim, perhaps I will send word to Locutius, Larl of the Gorean Stage.

I Reacquaint Myself with Mathor of Ar; Darwin is Relieved; Portia Gets Another Girl

originally posted February 9, 2007

Last evening, I was pleased to make the reacquaintance of Mathor of Ar. He has been off collecting something that was stolen from me for quite some time. It was good to see him again. Darwin, I think, might have been equal parts pleased to see the man and relieved to see him as well. Darwin is a competent, hard-working sort, but he comes from a family of Clothworkers. Thankfully, he's been accepted by the men of Ar in the Garment District and, too, accounted himself well with weapons under the tutelage of Mathor. Still, I think he would rather be enjoying a drink, discussing the methods and means of his Caste than standing guard outside the red doors, fending off the drunk, depraved and defeated. He does not complain, however. There are fringe benefits for a fellow guarding a whore house.
It was also pleasant to see Tasta again. I do not think that there is any shame in admitting that I am fond of her. She is the First Girl of the Boarding House. She keeps her charges in line. And as fearsome a six-legged monster as she is, I am not unfond of petting her about the top of the head or tugging on her ear now and again. She seems to like it. I am not averse to indulging her. She works hard as I have mentioned, and, too, she does not seem inclined to eat me. Of all the excellent traits she possesses; tenacity, loyalty, a general good nature, the inclination not to eat the Poet is amongst my favorite.
Oh, and I beat a girl last evening. She was due a beating. I put her in Portia's charge.
"You have an arrangement with Six," I informed the black girl. I was well aware that my Six Girl had submitted herself to Portia's domination. I was not averse to the politics of girls. It would be, in fact, good for Six. And I thought it would be good for the girl I had just beaten as well.
"Yes Master," she admitted, a lump forming in her throat. She had no intention of lying to me. She is not a stupid whore.
"You also have an arrangement with that one," I told her, nodding to the girl I had just beaten. "Generate a list of chores, put her to work until I decide what is to be done with her."
"Yes Master," the girl repeated.
"Give her a name, too, if it pleases you," I directed.
Though I have not decided what to do with her, it is good to have the girl once called Jenny where she belongs. I own her.

Fate & The Future

originally posted February 6, 2007

The common question this last hand has been 'When will you be producing another play?' Or, 'Will you write another play?' Free and slave, men and women alike seem to ask the same question of me or pose some related sentiment. More than the crowd that attended or the income earned from the Fall of Agamedes at the Tallux Theater, the questions lead me to believe that it was well received. For that, I am pleased. I will write another. I have investors and business partners very keen on my doing so. I must be inspired, however. In the interim, I have considered a reworking of The Bridge of Tweny Lanterns, a street play, or the abridged version of The Magic Veil of Anango, both of which were performed with some success on the journey south from last year's Fair of En'Kara. These are not plays suitable for the stage, however. Such works are performed 'on the boulevard' or even at the side of the road, depending upon the patronage of travelers. Each features as primary members of the cast slave girls. Each, too, features slave girls posing as free women. Though I would be keen to scandalize the population with such unorthodox endeavors as a cast of slaves on the greatest stage of Gor, I would not be keen to reinstate the black-balling of my work from that stage for another extended period of time. It was only the success of The Fall in the shadows of the Sardar and in the playhouses of Venna that led to its one-night run at The Tallux. It is far too soon and the good graces afforded me far too tenuous to challenge the sensibilities of the elite of Ar. For now. I have my notes. I have my early drafts. I also have a flame-haired Fisherman turned Story Teller turned Actor that has proved his ability to consider when writing. I wonder if his unique appearance is something I should exploit. Perhaps that sort of thing is just another sort of scandal I need to avoid - but it is tempting...

Public Service

originally posted January 29, 2007

I own women who generate income. The incentive for their production is simple. It pleases me to feed, clothe and house them so long as I have a compelling reason to do so. It is a vicious circle, however. If they do not earn, they are not fed. If they are not fed, their bodies will not remain within the parameters I have mandated. If their bodies do not remain within the parameters I have mandated, they will cease to be pleasing and I will no longer have a compelling reason to feed, clothe or house them. Absolute Obedience. Exquisite Beauty. Two rules. Manifold import. While it is true that not all the slaves serve in the same capacity, they all earn. And each depends upon the other to do what is expected of her. They are individuals, of course, but they also retain the characteristic of a single entity. What one does (or does not do) affects the others.
It occured to me to suspend the 'day of respite' for two slaves, Portia and Six Girl. I cannot recall what sent my whim in that direction, but it is not important. They were each directed to offer themselves to the first two fellows who happened upon them in the Insula of Achiates for an ahn- courtesy of the Poet Szol. When a fellow gives back to the community that supports him, he fosters a favorable opinion of himself from his peers. Should I campaign or simply offer a complimentary comfort to the lower castes now and again? I loathe the idea of a political life, but I wonder at the same moment if dissidence and the delka are enough? Am I, Szol of the Poets, not 'of the people?'

A Note from Mathor of Ar

originally posted January 29, 2007

12:11:10,156

Jort's Ferry.
Will cross the Vosk tomorrow, first light. Girl is daft. Odd looks from locals. I will lock her in the room until morning.

v/r
Mathor of Ar

Profits; The Future

originally posted January 25, 2007

I paid the actors.
Total compensation for the two of them was better than six silver tarsks, or ten percent of the net profits from ticket sales at the Fall of Agamedes. Of course, during the hands that led up to the production, I forwarded both of them regular advances and subtracted this amount from the total they were each paid - which was in the neighborhood of five silver tarsks apiece. Phineahas seemed to think it was far too much, that the services of Portia, I presume, had eaten much of his profit. He tried to return four of the five silver tarsks, but I refused. It is difficult to believe he put the black girl to her belly over one hundred and thirty times in the time I have known him. Certainly not since the time I began employing him. If so. Kudos to the man. I have my suspicion that most fellows find it difficult to ride that lewd whore more than once. She enjoys it. She makes certain they enjoy it. I have seen more than one fellow limping his way down the stairs at the Boarding House with a grand smile upon his exhausted face. At any rate, I did not accede to his demand that I retain four of the five silver coins he was rightfully paid. I profited well enough from the proceeds of the play and concessions that I could afford to pay both fellows well above scale. I did so.
Now comes the time when I have to start considering the next production. I wonder if Ar hungers for another drama. Perhaps a farce would be better suited for my third production in the Great Theater. The Merchant of Ko-ro-ba, for all the scandal it caused, was a rather weighty dramatic piece, and long, too. The Fall of Agamedes, similarly, was difficult material. Perhaps something lighter the next time. I do not know just yet.

A Note From Lady Tia Tamborn

originally posted January 22, 2007

Tal Poet,
I do pray this scroll finds you and yours in the best possible health.
I wished to offer my words of congratulations upon the successful production.
You along with the skilled Entertainers should be very proud.
I debated upon personally offering such words, yet like you I had much to attend to with to ensure that we were all presented in a favorable light.
You shall find the attached parchment outlining the overall profit made from each item offered, along with the 15% we that we discussed.
Thank you for the opportunity to share in this event with you and if you ever desire to do business with me again, I welcome such a wonderful opportunity.
I have dispatched a trusted acquaintance to deliver the coin along with the scroll to your Anbar residence.
I wish you much success Poet, and look forward to the time when our paths might cross again,
The Lady Baker

40 loaves, Sa-Tarna with honey-80 C.T.
Candied Dates-28 C.T.
Mint Sticks- 36 Tarsk bits
Stuffed mushrooms- 33 C.T.
Glazed Apricots-23 C.T.
Honey dipped larma slices-15 C.T.
Platters of verr cheese and garlic toasted sa-tarna-63 C.T.
Aged verr cheese stuffed pears-47 C.T.
Chocolate covered cherries-48 C.T.

Total of 3 Silver Tarsk & 37 Copper Tarsk
subtract 15%=60 C.T.

Notes to the Subsidiary Ledger

originally posted January 22, 2007

Fifty seats sold @ 50 C.T. = 2,500 C.T.
Eighty-Seven seats sold @ 35 C.T. = 3,045 C.T.
Seventy-Five seats sold @ 30 C.T. = 2,250 C.T.
Two Hundred seats sold @ 25 C.T. = 5,000 C.T.
Fifty seats sold @ 20 C.T. = 1,000C.T.
______________________________________
13,795 C.T. = 138 Silver Tarsks.

138 S.T
-40% gross to house (55 S.T.)
__________________
83 S.T.
-15% gross to Vesutto (21 S.T.)
__________________
62 S.T
.-10% net to Phineahas (620 C.T. - (16 HandsX10 C.T.) = 620 C.T. - 160 C.T. = 460 C.T. = 4.6 S.T. (rounded to 5 S.T.)
__________________
57 S.T.
-10% net to Turianus (620 C.T. - 11HandsX10 C.T.) = 620 C.T. - 110 C.T. = 510 C.T. = 5.1 S.T. (rounded to 5 S.T.)
__________________
52 S.T.
- 1 S.T. & 50 X 5 Musicians = 5.5 S.T.
__________________
46.5 S.T.
-misc. expense. (props, advertisement, costuming, bribes to city officials approx. 10 S.T.)
__________________
approx. net = 36.5 S.T.

Turianus; Phineahas; Success

originally posted January 21, 2007

I was given a gift last evening by the wandering son of Torcadino, Quintus Turianus, who played Agamedes with a commanding skill last evening. I wondered if he would match the performance of famed Nikos of Tyros at the base of the Sardar. Upon reflection, I suppose he did indeed. These are subjective things to discern. Each man played the tortured Warrior differently and each, in my estimation, played him well. The gift, by the way, was an engraved cup. It bears my name, the name of my caste and the motto 'The Play's The Thing.' It is a fine cup, much finer than I am accustomed to drinking from.
Phineahas, the Story Teller of Brundisium, too, performed admirably. The last fellow to play the role was Locutius of Gor. He is 'of Gor,' of course, because half a dozen cities or more claim him as a sworn citizen. Again, it is difficult to compare the two in the role. Locutius is to the stage what Scormus of Ar is to The Game. He brought a menace and a tenacity to the role that was due years, perhaps decades, of experience. I can say, however, with unapologetic veracity, that Phineahas brought his own strengths and experiences to the role. His personality found its way into the dark heart of the taunting Killer and, if the applause of Ar's elite are any indication, he was the rival, if not equal of Locutius. Of course, if Locutius were ever to read these pages, he might find himself completely scandalized and perhaps even slandered. He might say:

"I am Locutius of Gor."

It is remarkable how many of that fellow's sentiments begin and end with that sentence.
Within a few days I should have tallied the receipt revenues and finalized obligations with the management of the Great Theater. They, of course, will take their healthy cut, but our negotiations were established well in advance. If my calculations are correct, the investment seems like a sound one. I am certain the actors will be eager to receive payment for their performances. The Musicians and stagehands were compensated directly after. I am tired. It is time, for the moment, to put aside the pen.

Visitors; Politics; Gossip

originally posted January 20, 2007

The Lady Baker made her appearance last evening at the Great Theater. I have decided to do business with her, allowing her to sell her noshes and baked goods to the patrons of the play tonight. She very generously offered to provide this service to me at no cost. While that was, indeed, generous of her, I protested and told her I would accept no more than fifteen percent of her total profits for the evening. That is an unexpected profit, but a welcome one. While a poor showing this evening would not cast me into financial ruin, it certainly would be cause for a tightening of the belt. Every copper tarsk counts.
Also visiting the Theater last evening was the mercenary, Reginold Guyon. His call was neither social nor business related. He simply wished a place to warm himself from the cold. I did not gainsay him a place in the upper tiers. While he and I have never been friends or even on friendly terms, I would not consider him an enemy or even someone I am ill-disposed toward. We simply walk in different circles. Different circles...
That reminds me of the notice I saw posted on the public boards. Nominations from the general public for Magistracies are being called for. Too, posts of prominence in the high castes will be conferred. Political appointment is never something I have considered important. Truly, it is something I have always looked upon with suspicion, particularly during the time of the occcupation. They will choose a 'Magistrate of the People,' however. Someone to represent the lower castes on the High Council. While I find their attempts to place a 'High Magistrate' over the Anbar somewhat dubious, as the Anbar polices itself, I cannot help but wonder if the opportunity to represent those of lower caste should not be given consideration.
At the moment, the play 'is the thing' as they say. The callers are out with their signs and will be afoot for the remainder of the day and well into the afternoon. I have purchased opaque silk of modest length and cut for each of the slaves that I own and given them instruction as to their appearance and mien for the evening. Sandal will wear pale green. Emily will wear red. For the Six Girl, I have chosen black. Samantha and Elise, per usual, will wear pink and pale blue, respectively. Portia is to be clad in cream. Nirah, as always, will be wrapped in purple.
While the women are preparing themselves, while the actors are engaged in final preparations, I will spend an ahn or two in the Capacian Baths. Dahlia, a girl assigned to one of my favorite pools, will have the latest gossip. Politics. Talk of the play. She will have heard the things that I am curious over.

Vanity and Perception

originally posted January 19, 2007

I suppose I am vain. Not in a conventional, self-absorbed sense, but vain nonetheless. I have already told the auburn girl, Joy, who I also refer to as 'Sandal,' that I expect her to put her hair up and off of her neck tomorrow evening. The collar on her throat will be visible and a few curls allowed to escape the coif and rest on the hollows of her collarbone. She is a tall female, though not lanky, well-proportioned with a good ass. A good ass is important. The up-do is a good look for such a woman, a good look for her. She wears coral lip paint on occasion. I will allow that as well.
The others, too, I will expect to look their best. It is not an evening for them to sell their bodies, nor to entice future sales - though that is no doubt an unpreventable occurence. It is an evening for the things I own, the chattels in my possession, to look their very best. Many of them are whores, property acquired in a fortuitous companionship that I once had. I have, regardless of the circumstance, become fond of them. People of higher caste and station than myself will attend this play; Scribes, Builders, Warriors and the like. Perhaps Physicians, certainly a wealthy Merchant or two. Should they be inclined to notice an Evona or a Portia, a Nirah or an Emily, or even a Six Girl, they might think to themselves, "Lovely bit of fluff the Poet owns there. She looks familiar, does she not?" without realizing, of course, that the very girl they are remarking upon might be one that was kicked away or turned from with disdain as she peddled herself in the Markets and Stadiums, in the alleys and streets of the city.
Perhaps I will do a bit of shopping this afternoon.
I saw the Story Teller's future love slave last night. I thought it might be nice if the next time he called her to his side, she ran to him properly, as a woman should run. Elise, by my command, illustrated to her the way a girl runs. She, then, too by my command, emulated Elise to the best of her ability. It was not a bad run. Certainly, it had inklings of femininity. She requires a beating or two, and perhaps a stiff raping while bound closely. She will, then, and only then, run properly. As a girl. Though I like the Story Teller, and have come to regard him as a friend, this is not a chore I took upon myself to complete. Let it be him that is the first to make her squeal like an ensnared tarsk and then find herself rutting and moaning like a heated she-larl. I merely told her to run along. She did so. Perhaps he will notice the change, however minor, as it is a significant one in my opinion.

A Note of Reply; The Trouble With Six; The Great Theater

originally posted January 18, 2007

A few days prior, I received a note from a free woman, a Lady of the Caste of Bakers. She requested the privilege of serving the patrons of the theater the night The Fall of Agamedes debuts in Ar. I sent the blonde girl off in her direction with a note of reply, informing her that she is free to pursue an interview with me on any night this hand. I have not heard from her as yet. Presumably, the sight of a barbarian slut serving as message courier did not offend the woman's sensibilities. As a rule, I like Bakers. They bake things.
The Six Girl is pushing the limits of her discipline yet again, ignoring curfews, purposely trying to remain 'unseen' in an attempt to garner attention, even if it is of the undesired sort. She continues to return with the money, however, but I suspect her next ploy will be to lessen her productivity. After that, I suspect she will attempt further subversion of her discipline. It is unfortunate that she has chosen to act out at this time, but she will be dealt with when my schedule permits the opportunity to deal with such trivialities. She is used to manipulating men and having her way. I witnessed it before she became a house slave at Samsara many years ago, a convenience for the residents and guests, a sul peeler and laundress. I see it on occasion with her customers. The behavior, when tolerated, makes her an effective and profitable whore. When it is not tolerated, she earns a drubbing or a minor humiliation at the expense of the fellow who understands precisely what she is attempting to do. She attempts, once again, to manipulate me. 'Look at me. Punish me. Notice me. Beat me.' All in good time. On my schedule.
The actors seem to be in fine spirits of late. They seem to tolerate one another and have something of a begrudging respect, however slight, between them. They will ascend the greatest stage of our world at the end of this hand, acting in a play that earned acclaim at the very foot of the Black Sardar. Each, the itinerant actor and traveling story teller, have already earned the respect of the world beyond the walls of their respective home cities, Torcadino and Brundisium. At the end of this hand, they will realize they walked with Giants. The Great Theater of Pentilicus Tallux is no Vennan playhouse, no Turian Amphitheater. Nothing on fat Lurius' Isle of Vart Guano approaches the grandeur of this stage. Neither Port Kar nor Thentis, Ko-ro-ba nor Tor can match those many storiedwalls. When the final curtain descends, when they take their bow, their names will always be remembered.

By The Numbers

originally posted January 16, 2007

It is a good thing, from time to time, to review the numbers, the mathematics of business. For example, I own nine animals. Of these nine, one is a sleen. Of the remaining eight, two are not income generating entities. Of the remaining six, one is currently being fetched from abroad. That leaves five women that can be considered viable income generating beasts. Of these five, one can be rented for four copper tarsks per ahn. At twenty ahn per day, with an average working day of fifteen ahn, she has the potential to earn sixty copper tarsks per day. However, it is safe to assume that of the fifteen ahn allotted for working in a single day, only ten of those are purely productive, which brings the assumed daily total to forty copper tarsks per day. Once per hand, I allow the women on the coffle a day of respite from earning that they are free to pursue other endeavors that enrich them as women and, by default, as slaves. That leaves four days per hand at forty copper tarsks per day for a total of one hundred and sixty copper tarsks per hand. Four other women are permitted to charge three copper tarsks per ahn. Assuming the same daily schedules, which would mandate ten purely productive ahn per day, four three copper whores would earn one hundred and twenty copper tarsks daily and a total of four hundred and eighty copper tarsks per hand. Adding four hundred eighty to the one hundred and sixty earned by the four copper slave totals a presumed 640 copper tarsks per hand - or six silver forty.
It sounds like a great deal of money and, truthfully, it is. More than a man of my modest tastes needs, really. In fact, I own two domiciles. While the property taxes on the Boarding House are negligible, an advantage to building in a district that most people run from, they are not nil. Samsara, of course, enjoys a subsidy and sponsorship from wealthy Patrons of the Arts, but dwindling numbers living and producing in-residence have led to decreased generosity. I still retain the plot of land North of Venna with the idealized future of building a modest Villa that overlooks a grove of ka-la-na and maybe a stand or two of olives. That seems distant at the moment.
Knowledge is power, but knowledge is also a crutch. It is a weight. A burden. When one earns a round of sa-tarna for a song, the transaction is equitable and, ultimately, concluded when the consumable is traded for the ephemeral. Not so with other businesses. Those that understand suchthings as business, mercantile exchange, the dynamism of currency, will tell you that 'to make money, one must spend money.' I have found this to be true. To own an income generating asset, one must safeguard that income generating asset. For that matter, one must safeguard all assets, whether or not they generate income. This entails, at minimum, a means of securing the asset and, in the case of chattels, feeding, housing and possibly clothing said asset. If one wishes the asset(s) to retain value, one must ensure that they not only survive, but thrive in the environment one provides for them.

Rehearsal Night; Kal-da is Evil

originally posted January 13, 2007

Kal-da is evil. I have determined that.
We had a full dress rehearsal last evening, the first rehearsal of the sort. Musicians were brought in. A player of the czehar, two players of the aulus, and two drummers, both kaska and tabor, complemented the action. Behind the curtains, I put the Six Girl at the disposal of Phineahas for costume changes and transitions. Elise was put at the disposal of Turianus. Only Sandal watched from the tiers. The doors of the Great Theater were locked to spectators and passersby. Only the actors, myself, a few slaves and the old ghost of the theater were in attendance. It went well. I have a few notes for the musicians, but there are only minor adjustments I would like them to make.
It was afterward that things went less than well.
I remember paying the Musicians for their time. I also paid a stipend, an advance of future earnings, for the last few hands of work, to both Turianus and Phineahas. Per usual, Turianus took his leave, but Phineahas suggested a drink. He, too, offered to buy the rounds at The Ripe Larma on Wagon Street. It is a coarse tavern. The wines are cheap and the girls serving are cheaper still. Pretty, little urchins given what appear to be rags from the kitchen as garments. Though you can have a bottle of wine brought to the table, one does not go to the Larma for the wine. The Larma is, chiefly, a Kal-da Shop. I think the Story Teller was a little surprised that I was not unknown in the place. A few nods. A fellow lifted a bowl in my direction as we worked our way to a table. Many of the fellows that frequent the Larma are Saddle-Makers. Leather Workers, in general, can be found with a hot bowl on their tables and filthy sluts by their knees at the Larma. I am of a low enough caste, however, that I am not unknown by these fellows. Some of them know me as Szol of the Poets. Many of them know me as the whore-monger that puts his wanton strumpets in their paths.
I remember the first bowl of Kal-da. Hot and spicy. Dangerously potent and cheaply had. I remember that Sandal knelt at my left, leaning close. On my right, keeping close as well, was the girl Elise.We toasted to many things. To the success of the play. To the success of the Six Girl in earning back my money from the Musicians.When men toast while drinking Kal-da, the reason is two-fold. Firstly, the sentiment is true. Secondly, true as the sentiment may be, one needs a moment to steel oneself between drinks of the harsh brew. It is not a friendly drink.
It is after that I do not remember much. I know there was a second bowl. A generously-sized bowl, like the first. I know there was further toasting, though to what I cold not say. I know I woke with my forehead in the furs, unable to will myself to my shoulders, let alone my feet, for an ahn or more. Kal-da is evil. I have determined that. I am going back to sleep. I have instructed the auburn girl to wake me only if she wishes a spirited beating.

Threadbare; News

originally posted January 11, 2007
map copyright Markus Harris 1997

I had noticed the Six Girl running around bare-assed the other day. I remember thinking to myself, 'Why is the Six Girl running around bare-assed?' It was a predictable ponderance as I generally keep her garmented in a scrap of teal-colored silk with the words 'Have Me. Boarding House. Anbar' in block letters written above the rear hem. Advertising is good business. Of course, a bare-assed girl wearing only a collar with a pouch for coins fastened to a rude, welded ring at the front is its own sort of advertising. It says, 'See here. I am naked. This pouch fastened to the rude, welded ring at the front of my collar is for your coins. Have me.' Now, I know what you are thinking. It speaks nothing of the girl's origin. And just the sight of the word 'Anbar' conjures up images in a fellows mind. Danger. Intrigue. Dark alleys. Assassins. Whores. I would argue, however, that a bare-assed girl also evokes images in a fellow's mind. Many of them quite pleasant. I chose not to make issue of her being nude, assuming some fellow tore the garment from her body in a desire to have nothing between himself and what he paid three copper coins to enjoy.
Later that evening, the Story Teller, sporting new wounds at the hand of someone with less patience than manners, offered compensation for the missing garment. Apparently, it was bloodied. Apparently, the blood was his own. I am not of the Merchants. While I would like to be compensated for every damage and/or use of my property, I am not bound to that desire by Code. He found a utility for her garment that was, at that particular moment, more important than its current use. I found that acceptable. He was steadfast, however, in not incurring a debt to me, so I accepted his offer of three copper coins. I think I will leave her bare-assed for a time, regardless. As it is not yet En'kara, and the evenings are still somewhat cool, fellows will not be expecting that just yet. The change will stimulate sales.
I received word from Mathor today. He found my property in Harfax. He is returning with it presently. I assume he is taking the Pilgrim's Road south and will be approaching Fortress of Saphronicus in the next few days. He may take another route altogether, I cannot be sure. If one is not a Commanding Officer, one does not impose an itinerary on a Warrior, even should such a fellow be in your employ. It is enough that he found success in the endeavor. The girl is due discipline. I have not forgotten that.

News from Mathor of Ar

originally posted January 11, 2007

21:10:10,156

Property acquired. Located in Harfax.Need to purchase a gag.
The sleen seems pleased to make her reacquaintance.

v/r
Mathor of Ar

Torcadino; Ghost Stories

originally posted January 9, 2007

I received a missive from the city of Torcadino yesterday. Specifically, from a Merchant's Scribe that spoke on behalf of the citizens of Torcadino. Word of The Fall has spread to the city famed chiefly for her aqueducts and for its role in the Ar-Cos conflict. Several cities between Ar and Cos played roles in the conflict; Brundisium, Argentum, Corcyrus among them, but Torcadino was the only one to have the infamous mercenary Dietrich of Tarnburg seated upon her throne. It was during these dark times, when a struggling, but talented actor decided to strike his way south and then west across the Plains of Turia. Quintus of Torcadino found a captive audience in the city of nine gates herself, earning the honorific title 'Turianus,' which he is known by today.
The Merchant's Scribe in Torcadino had heard tell of the play that I am producing and wished further information. Perhaps the citizens of Torcadino have not forgotten Quintus. The journey between cities is by no means insurmountable. Perhaps he will find a familiar face or two in the tiers when the curtain parts.
I spent some time in the Great Theater last evening. The last of the props, the helms of Warrior and Assassin have been delivered. For a time, I sat beside an auburn-maned girl and spoke about the ghost that haunts the stage. She wanted to know his story. He was agitated, opening and closing doors in the dressing room area, rattling the ropes and chains that open the great curtain. Perhaps Phineahas knows his story, as he is a teller of tales by vocation. I do not know about the ghost, only of him. Perhaps the Story Teller can fill in the details.
I saw Phineahas last evening, after the ghost had settled down. It seems that the more people who enter the theater, the less active the old spirit becomes. I do not think he is frightened, rather he simply will not brook being disturbed for the folly of only one or two. I was surprised that Phineahas was taken aback at the placard-wearing callers. I had rather thought he would enjoy hearing his name heralded in so great a city as Ar, the finest city from the Barrens to the World's End. From the most frigid peaks of Axe Glacier to the hottest Oases in the Tahari. Apparently, unbeknownst to me, he is a humble sort. Something about having his likeness and his name being on the ears and eyes of nearly every citizen, slave and animal of the city unnerves him. I cannot fathom why. He is humble. That has to be it.

Advertisement

originally posted January 8, 2007

The alleyway beside the Great Theater of Pentilicus Tallux was given a fresh layer of advertisement this morning. Larger versions of the flyers posted to the Public Boards are pasted on those walls. As if the egos of both Turianus and Phineahas were not grand enough, their likenesses now loom large in the alleyways of Aulus Street. Also, I've paid some itinerants in the city to wear large wooden placards with these posters pasted upon them. And though the Story Teller is not as well known in acting circles as Turianus, I am sure he will be pleased to know that the itinerants will be working as cryers as well, calling out each of their names with equal billing.
"Phin-e-a-has! Tur-i-a-nus! The Fall of Ag-a-me-des!"He is a good fellow. I would not want him to feel short-changed or slighted in this regard. All of Ar will know his name and likeness. As playwright and promoter, I will see to it. I have no doubt they will look upon him with the highest regard when the curtain falls that fast-approaching evening. In addition to the walking advertisements, I allowed the Six Girl to offer flyers to patrons of the city's Arena during a lull in the matches. Judging by the reactions of the people she begged a moment of time with, there is a good buzz generating. Hopefully, the nearly two year exile of producing plays in the city of my own birth, lifted by not only the passage of time, but successes in the city of Venna and at the foot of the mighty Sardar will not have been lifted in vain. While I doubt a reprisal of 'Merchant of Ko-ro-ba' would be looked upon favorably, I would like to think this production of 'Fall' will go off well enough to be permitted the further indulgence of working on so grand a stage. In just eleven days, two hands from tomorrow, I will have the eyes and ears of the city of Ar.

The Modality of the Jit Monkey

originally posted January 5, 2007

I was in the City Stadium with both Elise and Four-Copper last evening, getting a break from the drudgery of paperwork. I contracted a woman to companionship once. She was pleased, no overwhelmed with emotion, to be ordered to handle the mundane affairs of business, the drudgery of said paperwork. She was an acceptable accountant. The occasional audit of her work ensured me that the mistakes she made were at least honest ones. Understating revenues, miscalculating tax expense, thing like that. Easily corrected. I have been doing this work of late. While it is prudent to be closer to the in and outflow of revenues, it is time-consuming, tedious work.
I have been making it a point to pencil in times of relaxation. I think the blonde girl was pleased to be relieved of her duties, allowed to accompany me. Knelt on the upper concourse opposite Elise, the two of them seemed to enjoy the banter of the crowd, what they could hear of it, and the sparring combatants. They seem to genuinely like one another, despite disparate appearances and miens. I admit that I spent more time watching the two of them react to the matches than I did watching the matches themselves. Of course, if they did not like one another it would not matter. A splash from a bucket of water or the lash from a belt is generally more than enough to separate bickering animals.
In addition to the sparring, I saw a jit monkey at the Stadium. I cannot readily recall the last time I saw such an animal, but it has been some time. It might have been in the market stalls of Turia many years ago or certainly I must have encountered one during a brief stay in the Port of Schendi. They are odd, little bastards. Prone to an inappropriate outburst now and again. While it is not unheard of or, in certain areas of the world, even uncommon, I was not entirely comfortable seeing such a thing domesticated. It seemed altogether too nervous in an urban environment, scurrying back and forth across the shoulders of its wealthy owner. Should a thing not be in the canopies of the rainforest, traveling from vine to vine, tree to tree, in its element? I do not know. Perhaps I am simply anthropomorphizing a bit. Perhaps the chittering, little thing is quite content to provide its owners with an amusing distraction. I briefly considered returning to the Boarding House to place the lot of them into the modality of the jit monkey, to see if such a thing would be, indeed, an amusing distraction. The women I own, I was quickly reminded, are not unintelligent bitches. The two of them, Elise and Samantha, cleverly started to ponder aloud some of the less polite, but rather common, mannerisms and habits of the jit monkey that they would soon be emulating. While it could well have worked against them, I decided against a house full of slaves, sluts and whores in the modality of the jit monkey. Even for one evening. Even for one ahn.

Postponed

originally posted January 3, 2007

It is nearing the end of the fourth hand of Se'Var. By now, Mathor will have arrived in Esalinius, which is seated in the shadows of the Black Sardar. His last correspondence was dated nine days ago. From his accounts, the first girl of the Boarding House seems to have picked up the trail she was put upon. She is a tenacious bitch, but that is not uncommon in beasts of her ilk. The word 'fetch' was imprinted on her animal brain. Presumably, she will not tear her prey to pieces upon discovering it. I cannot guarantee as much for those that might stand between her and said prey.
The production of the play has been postponed a few hands. It will not, as hoped, be performed in the month of Se'Var. The proof for the advertisement was sent to the printers. Likenesses of both Turianus and Agamedes will appear upon it. Just another expense to deplete my coffers. Fortunately, the portrait artist I employed worked for a meal and a spot of paga. 'Spot,' I should say, is relative. It was enough paga to incapacitate a kaiila. His work, despite the inebriation, was quite competent I thought. 'Phineahas of Brundisium,' I am certain, will be pleased to have his likeness posted on the public boards.

An Update from Mathor of Ar

originally posted December 31, 2006

10:10:10,156

Tharna.
Friendly place. Free women are unbelievably scarce. Nice town.
Two days in. Leaving tomorrow. A peddler passed through here a few months ago. The sleen confirms it.
Headed for Esalinius.

v/r
Mathor of Ar

Strange Days

originally posted December 19, 2006

The month of Se'Var has arrived. It started without notice, without ceremony. Why the tenth month should be a busy one, I haven't a clue - but it seems to be. People hustling and bustling about, an influx of foreigners in the city and a general lessening of propriety amongst fellow citizens and strangers alike are a few things I have noticed. There are times possessing even a limited grasp of the very periphery of The Second Knowledge seems more a burden than a blessing. Those wide-eyed moments before dusty scrolls and the late night interrogations of an auburn-maned barbarian girl seem like a fool's chase to me now and again. Times like these cause me to believe it more and more. I wonder what the Agents of Acquisition are thinking or, more to the point, what their employers are on about. Adequate words fail me, so I will simply concede that I am at a loss. I do not like that I seem to have become a recluse of late, but there is no denying it. I use the Theater and the production of the upcoming play as an excuse, but I know that I am deluding myself. Perhaps this last time I was simply on the road too long. Was life at home always this busy, this dramatic? The people are restless.

I am becoming restless.

An Update from Mathor of Ar

originally posted December 11, 2006

30:9:10,156

I am in Ko-ro-ba. The information volunteered cheerfully by the gentleman from Port Kar was valid. The sleen put the door of a small tavern off the hinges. I am beginning to like your animal. Straight-forward. Duty bound. Tenacious.
The proprietor graciously declined an offer to pay for the damages. It seems he is fond of sleen. He and Tasta got on well. Rolling around the floor. Growling. Carrying on. Your property, however, is no longer here. He described her well enough. Silver-haired. Minimally-breasted. Vacant stare.
East to Tharna tomorrow, with the first light of Tor-tu-Gor. Hearsay, but the animal should confirm the rumor.

v/r
Mathor of Ar

An Invoice for Payment submitted by Tromsø of Hammerfest

Deliver to:
Szol of the Poets
House Samsara
Aulus Street
District of the Theater of Pentilicus Tallux
Ar

19th Day of the Ninth Month10,156 C.A.

Esteemed Poet,

I have been directed by Mathor of Ar to forward this invoice for payment to your person. Please remit two silver tarsks at your earliest convenience to compensate for services I have rendered on your behalf. As per Mathor of Ar's instruction, I have gladly discounted the cost of my services and, also per instruction, would like to greet you with a spirited 'Hail Ar!'. An itemized list of charges are as follows:

For Medical Attention Given to Kord of Port Kar:
Broken ribs (4), tape - 42 Copper Tarsks
Seventeen stitches, facial laceration - 24 Copper Tarsks
Set broken arm (2), cast, splints, bandages - 63 Copper Tarsks
Various dental work - 61 Copper Tarsks
Administrative, clerical - 10 Copper Tarsks

Thank you for your patronage,
Tromsø, Caste of Physicians
House of Tromsø
Hammerfest

Further Correspondence From Mathor

originally posted December 9, 2006

19:9:10,156

North to Ko-ro-ba.

v/r
Mathor of Ar

Personality & The Power of Persuasion

originally posted December 5, 2006

I thought Phineahas and Turianus worked well together. They seem to get on well enough, but they also seem to be natural adversaries. They are by no means oil and water, each is more like the other than either would care to admit, I wager. They do seem to approach the world, however, from different mindsets. The characters, Julian and Agamedes, the mercenary Assassin and classic, duty-bound Warrior, have a genuine dislike, but begrudging respect for one another. While I do not think the actors I have chosen dislike one another, per se, I do think the competitiveness and potential oneupmanship I noted in their banter between lines will serve the production famously.
I have asked the two of them to work out the details of scene four, which occurs without dialogue. It is a scene of conflict, designed to add a touch of physicality to the growing tension in the conversation between the two principals. I have decided to merge scene five with scene four as well, in order to keep the tension ramped up a bit longer before giving the audience a moment to catch their breath. I think the transition should be fluid, lively action seguing into a lively trading of words. I look forward to seeing what the two of them have worked out. I think there is little doubt we can have the rehearsals completed and other details such as the hiring of musicians to score the production in time for a debut some time in the month of Se'Var.

I received a missive yesterday from Mathor. It is the first time I have heard from him directly. As discussed, he booked passage on a barge headed west along the Vosk. Apparently, he is networking, making new friends and acquaintances in the town of Hammerfest. I have little doubt his efforts will be successful. While Mathor is not often verbose, he rarely fails to be persuasive. Of course, his efforts come at a cost.
"It is impossible to know," I said to him some six hands ago, "where is best to begin the search."
"You wish the slave returned?" he asked, confirming my intentions.
"I do," I said.

A Letter From Mathor

16:9:10,156

In Hammerfest. A tournament of some sort will be held here in a few days. Men from the four corners of Gor are starting to filter in. I questioned one of Port Kar this morning. When the swelling reduces in my knuckles, I will question him further. He is tied up at the moment regardless.

v/r
Mathor of Ar

Turianus

originally posted November 26, 2006

I may have found my Agamedes last evening. A fellow called Turianus wandered into the Great Theater last evening late, after others reading for the part were long since departed. I know of him, of course. Before the occupation, he acted upon the minor stages of Torcadino and surrounding villages and towns within the realm of Ar. According to popular gossip, it is said that he traveled south, bolstering his reputation in the cities along the Silk Road to Kasra, finally traveling west to Turia. It was there that Quintus of Torcadino became Quintus Turianus, or simply, 'Turianus' as he is known in the southern cities. As the gossip tells, he was given the honorific title for his performances on the Turian stages by the Administrator of that city himself.
His reading of Agamedes was quite competent. I felt he understood, to a great extent, what I am trying to convey in the character. I would like to see him beside Phineahas, trading lines rather than orating, but it is my feeling I have found the right actor to fill the sandals once worn by Locutius and Nikos of Tyros. High praise for a thespian, assuredly.

The Cost of Wealth; Darwin; Progress

originally posted November 24, 2006

I had intended to close the Boarding House for a few days while I conducted auditions, thinking they would go smoothly and I would cast the parts in a matter of days, perhaps a hand. While I have cast the part of Julian, the part of Agamedes continues to prove more difficult to cast. There is little question that it is easier for the slaves to earn when they are domiciled in the Anbar, but the idea of trekking back and forth between two homes at this time is daunting. There are only so many ahn in a day. Still. I have men in my employ. Mathor has been forwarded several month's salary and, assuredly, I can expect an expense report when he returns. Darwin, though given a leave of absence, is yet retained at a reduced salary. Phineahas, finally, I forwarded an advance of payment while we prepare for the production. I will have to do so again soon. He cannot sustain himself off of the admiration of Portia, nor keep warm in the evenings from the heated gazes of the Six Girl. While he practices for The Fall, after all, he is not otherwise engaged in the business of earning a living.
I am beginning to see why brothers of my caste disdain the accumulation of wealth. One can live, although not well, with a few copper coins in his wallet and nothing more. And one sleeps quite well at night knowing that where one lays one's head is one's home. I have two domiciles and property north of Venna. The ledgers bearing my name at the Street of Coins are not the ledgers of a Poet. They are the ledgers of a Poet, Playwright & Whoremonger. Perhaps that will be my title when the flyers for The Fall are posted on the Public Boards and the posters are pasted on alley walls and fences:

Szol of Ar: Poet, Playwright & Whoremonger Presents...

A Letter from Lucius Verus

Day 2
Month 9
CA 10,156

My Friend,

I spoke with your hired man today, Mathor. A charming enough fellow with the good sense not to dabble in verbosity. It was my misfortune to have the faintest trace of a girl's scent at the fringe of my peddler's carpet. Rest assured, your sleen is quite diligent, capable and, might I say without even a modicum of irony, eager. I assume the animal picked up the scent she was looking for as a result of the day I put the bina in your sweetly hipped brunette's ears. Has she gone missing? Or was it the black girl? There was one other there that day as I recall. An ungarmented slut with small breasts, I believe. In any case, whichever of the three might have gone missing, I do wish you good fortune in retrieving your property. I shall be laundering my peddler's carpet this afternoon. Twice.

Lucius Verus

Searches

originally posted November 12, 2006

A few fellows auditioned for the role of Agamedes this past week, but I have yet to find the right man for the role. In Phineahas, I have the proper wit and timing to carry off a believable Julian, but there is a certain quality to Agamedes that has, to this point, eluded those auditioning for the role. He is a tortured soul, filled with angst, and at a point in his life when he must make difficult decisions. A fork in the road, so to speak, that must be addressed. He cannot turn back. He cannot wait. He must choose. At a desperate ahn, he must secure the straps of his shield, loosen the sword in its scabbard and march forth. The difficulty in playing such a role is maintaining believability in the face of the antagonist Julian. Julian has the ability to 'steal' the production and, in the first run of this production, in Venna, Nikos of Tyros did so. To the dismay of the arguably more skilled Locutius, Nikos won the favor of the Vennan audiences. So much so that when the play opened to audiences at the En'Kara Fair, Locutius usurped the role of Julian from Nikos. It will be difficult to cast the role, but I am confident it can be done. I think the decision to send Mathor forth with Tasta was a sound one. It has been about a hand since the first girl of the Boarding House was given her task and I have not, as yet, heard word from Samos of Port Kar. There has not been a further deposit in my account on the Street of Coins either. I do not know when I will hear from Mathor, but I do not suspect it will be soon. The scent of the slave being fetched is on both roads leaving my city and, too, in every major city in its vicinity. While I cannot imagine she will be found in any of these cities, Mathor will have his work cut out for him, deterring her from the many false leads they are bound to come upon. In the days before he left, we spoke at length about where she would likely have been delivered, assuming she was not simply executed when she had outlived her usefulness.
"She will not be within the boundaries of Ar," I posited.
"It is a large city," Mathor countered. "It would be a bold stroke to hide the woman 'in plain sight' so to speak."
"It would," I agreed, "but she would not be able to hide within the city for long before she might be recognized"
"Her appearance could be altered," he countered.
"Not to the sleen," I said. "Granted," he agreed.
"For this reason," I said, "I do not think she will be in the vicinityof Ar. Not in Torcadino. Nor Venna."
"That is a reasonable assumption," he concurred.
"Were I Samos, I would put her in the Tahari. Or Turia. I might sell her to the Wagon Peoples, even," I said.
"She is quite fair," he remarked. "She would stand out in such places. She would be easier to find than, say, Nirah or Emily."
"I had not thought of that," I admitted. "She is most likely north of the Vosk."
"And south of Kassau," he said assuredly.
"South of Kassau?" I asked."Her skin is very fair, which would serve to conceal her well, but certain features of her physique are less than common for a slave girl serving bond in the north," he explained.
"Ah," I understood then. Her bosom, while perky, was hardly that of a bond maiden. "She will not be in Thentis," I said.
"No," he agreed.
"Ko-ro-ba?" I mused.
"Possibly," he agreed. "She might have been taken to any of the cities along the Roads of Clearchus or Cyprianus."
"What of the Vosk towns?" I offered.
"Not Jort's Ferry, but perhaps cities west of there," he answered.
It made sense. Jort's Ferry was on the Pilgrim's Road, the path to the Sardar. Too, it was known that we were in the city of Lara quite recently, which is east of Jort's Ferry. For that reason, we did not think she would be in Vonda or Port Olni either.
"There are many cities west of Jort's Ferry. Point Alfred. Jasmine. Victoria," I said.
"Sulport. Hammerfest. Port Cos," he nodded, naming more.
Through supposition, we had narrowed his search considerably, but it was by no means an easy task. We had not mentioned the Barrens. Or Cos. Were she in such places, it would be nearly impossible to retrieve her. White men are discouraged, quite emphatically, from traveling in the lands east of the Thentis Mountains. Men of Ar, similarly, are discouraged from trodding the soil of the land of Lurius. In any case, I will have my property returned.

Advance of Payment

originally posted November 7, 2006

"There has been ample time for a response," I said.
"I think so," Mathor replied.
It has been close to three hands since the last correspondence, mine, was sent. Tasta, normally not one to be so vocal, was quite ready to be on with it this morning. In the alleyway behind the Boarding House, her barks and growls reported off the narrow walls. It was not clandestine, truly, what Mathor and I discussed, but if it had been, the sleen would have been sorely lacking in discretion. Neighbors asleep in adjacent building certainly thought so. "Shut that damned animal up!" "It is the third hand, whore-monger! Have you lost your wits?!" She reminded me a bit of the Six Girl after being given something with sugar, literally bouncing. Of course, there is no real intent, or focus, when Six is hyper. Tasta, quite clearly, straining on the leash, had a goal. I feared for the strength of Mathor's arm, but he assured me the task was not above his tolerance. It may have been the stipend I handed him. It amounted to his salary for the next several months, in a lump sum.
"It is impossible to know," I started, "where is best to begin the search."
"You wish the slave returned?" he asked, seeking to confirm my intentions.
"I do," I said.
He merely nodded. As he turned down the alleyway toward the cross street, an eager sleen with the scent of a woman and the name of that woman imprinted on her animal brain pulling at her lead, I sensed that his tenacity was as equal to the task as that of the beast. Wherever they might find the girl, Arjentia, 'Jenny of Gor', I would not envy the fellow standing between her and Tasta or, for that matter, her and the fellow holding Tasta's leash.

The Auditions Continue

originally posted November 4, 2006

I am told that interest in the upcoming production of The Fall of Agamedes is starting to swell. I have not had the time to do much more than post the announcements on the Public Boards to know this first hand. Tonight, however, auditions will continue. The fellow I've cast to play Julian the Assassin is a likeable sort, a visitor to Ar that seems to have garnered a favorable impression by most whom have had the opportunity to engage him. That is good. Though he plays the antagonist in the play, the character of Julian should be one that the audience finds themselves liking despite themselves. His phrasing is lyrical, his wit dry. He is an apt foil to the tortured, serious soul of Agamedes the Warrior. As I sit with the ghosts of the Great Theater, penning the edits, tightening the script, it is difficult not to recall the success at the base of the Sardar. The crowds of the En'kara Fair, representing all the cultures of Gor, cheered for the portrayals of Agamedes and Julian by Nikos of Tyros and Locutius, the famed, fiery tempered larl of the stage. Too, the fourth run of this work in the playhouses of Venna is said to be enjoying continued success. This, however, is Ar. This production will open for the first time in the greatest theater on the planet. The Theater of Pentilicus Tallux is, without question, the premier stage upon Gor. Her patrons, citizens of Ar, my city, will ultimately decide if the work of Szol of the Poets will be remembered for the ages or forgotten amongst the other faded posters, pasted over in the collage of peeling and torn advertisements that litter the alley walls of Aulus Street. Not that I am giving this much thought, you understand.

Ta Wine

originally posted November 4, 2006


At the insistence of the Story Teller, I had a cup of ta-wine on his tarsk bit. It was crisp, strong. Wine of that type is prized, I believe, because of the conditions in which the fruit is grown. A successful crop takes a skillful vintner and great patience. The fruit, while delicate during its ripening, provides a rather robust flavor once fermented, aged and finally splashing into the bottom of one's glass. While it was not as mellow as the ka-la-nas of Ar, I found it not unpleasant. I have, in fact, had such wine in the past, and in copious amounts, despite my preference for the vintages closer to the origins of my birth. He has expressed his disdain for the ka-la-nas of Ar, so it was no surprise that he would offer a wine of Cosian vintage to me. Patriotism, of course, plays a part in my preferences, but it is not without informed discernment that I choose what wets my palate. Odd that he should have seemed so miffed at my ambivalence, but ones preferences are what they are.

Tasta Goes To Market; I Speak With Mathor

originally posted November 1, 2006

Tasta was fiesty on her leash today. As I stood in the Teiban district talking to Mathor, she pulled at the leash, trying to coax me into walking into whatever direction had earned her excitement at any given moment. Whether it was the call of a peddler, the scent of a whore, the chatter of a jit monkey in a cage, the strains of a fellow playing the double-flute upon his tattered carpet, hoping for coins to land in his waiting cap or any of a hundred other sights, smells and sounds, she was eager to investigate them all. For a moment, my mind drifted to Venna and her chance meeting with The Horned Ubar; that fierce, monster of a tharlarion. It cut an imposing figure with its swarthy, leathery flesh, marked at the flanks and about the neck with orange bars. The bony protrusions above the beast's brow were the most awe-inspiring of its traits, however. As if the teeth, claws and foul disposition were not enough, the animal could gore you with a head butt. Tasta was not impressed, that much I recall. Had her training have been any less diligent, she might have broken the leash and battled The Horned Ubar right there on the mezzanine of the Stadium of Tharlarions. Odd how the mind travels. It was the diligence of her training that had me recalling her confrontation with Venna's Stadium of Tharlarions proudest steed. If Tasta truly wished me to investigate the sights, smells and sounds of the Teiban Market at midday, she could certainly employ fifteen feet of fur, fangs and muscle to press her point. She does little more than voice her discontent with an agitated huff or a vocalization akin to a put-upon howl. Tasta obeys.
"I sent the letter along six days ago," I said.
"He should have it then," Mathor replied.
"Yes," I answered. "I will wait for a reasonable duration of time for a reply and then we shall proceed."
"Very well," he nodded. "You are willing to go to the expense?"
"It is not about the money," I told him.
"Very well," he agreed.